


When it gets dark enough (I can see the stars)

by BelleLorage, orphan_account



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics), DCU (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Clark Kent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Porn, Future Mpreg, M/M, Omega Bruce Wayne, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, dawn of justice references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleLorage/pseuds/BelleLorage, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the destruction of Gotham, omega!Bruce Wayne has charged himself to avenge his city. He forms an alliance with omega!Lex Luthor against the alien he hates. What he didn't expect was the alien to be more human than he realised, and for life to change once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He didn't want to go.

 

He didn’t want to leave the estate. Only the cries of his city were reason enough to get him down to the cave; to don his armor and become the knight they needed. It hurt, but he had made a vow; the vow that made _him_. Every corner of Gotham seemed tainted, poisoned by the memory of his greatest failures. And how much blood had his failures spilled. He had only stood as his parents were gunned down. The warm, slick crimson taint of his son’s blood on his hands. He could only stand as those two aliens had destroyed everything, every building, every life inside of them. People were calling them gods. The unearthly creatures that had their hands as soiled as his. Gods, like in the Old Testament or some pagan poetry.  As if.

 

He could see his reflection in the mirror. He looked so… Old. He didn't want to go. Without the mask he was only human. A flawed one at that. Looking back at him in the mirror was an old, tired man. Thinner, too. Darker around the eyes and greyer in the temples.

 

 _His parents. Jason. And now his city._ The weight of them was, and always would be, on his shoulders. Their voices calling out to be avenged. Procuring a towel, he wrapped it around his waist as a long sigh left his lips. He couldn’t bare the idea of leaving and having to deal with other people on a good day. And now…? Not now. Not when there was so much to be done.

 

He had always been like this. A private individual, almost introverted in nature. Bruce grew up a quiet boy of nocturnal hours. His parents, though both loving and encouraging, never quite understood why their son would much prefer a long night with his head buried in a book than a day playing with the other children. Though, they loved him nonetheless. He was their blessing, to be shown to the world, to have the world at its best. Bruce loved them for that, no matter what boyish tantrum he might have thrown in the past. Loved them still, every day without fail. But he still hated the burden that their name left upon his shoulder.

 

It apparently was not enough to just fund a cause you believed in and leave it at that. No. One must fund a cause and go to benefits and banquets; parties whose funding could actually make a difference in the world if they were spent in the cause that they proclaimed to defend, but was squandered in thousand dollar plates and silk napkins. These were expected of him today, these two or three hours of hypocrisy. It was all very tiring and obvious. A scam he knew well, even at an early age. That is why he refused to go to all repeatedly, much to the despair of his guardian, Alfred Pennyworth. His butler and confidant only managed to convince him to go to these events by pure and simple bribery.

 

After his parents’ death, there was a lull from society. His mourning period was to be respected, after all. But as the years passed and the ache in his chest dulled to an emptiness that never faded, there was an urging demand for the heir of the Waynes. As he left childhood behind, the more invitations he got to these things. These wastes of resources. Everyone wanted to see the omega son of Martha and Thomas Wayne and gawk at how pretty he was becoming, on how his education and wealth were shaping him to be the perfect socialite. A pretty, wealthy prey, in whose neck many planned to sink their teeth in.  

 

Bruce loathed all of it. Scowling at his own reflection, he left the bathroom in search of clothes. He didn’t have time for that garbage. He didn't want to go.

 

He was not a perfect omega. He’d never be. He never wanted to be one to begin with. Bruce was not ashamed of his gender, he did not resent it but he sure as hell wasn't going to accept the stereotypes that came with it. That had been clear from day one and his mother and father had respected and supported his resolve. They wanted him to reach for the stars. Bruce still remembered wanting to be just like his father. Being a doctor, helping people.

 

But that was a long time ago. He wasn't his father. He wasn’t anything like that kind, good and optimistic omega. Or his mother, for that matter. He didn’t have her bravery, her strength, her faith. He had changed himself, his mind and his body from the frailty of his predisposed genetic make-up. Alfred's briberies had gotten him half way (One gala equaled five hours of hand to hand combat training. Continuous good grades allowed him classes on numerous subjects including espionage, multiple languages and mastery in disguises.) but it wasn't enough.

 

He touched the scars that littered his skin.

 

Marks of hardship. Marks of training. He had left Gotham to grow and become what his city needed. He trained so hard that his hands were rough and calloused, lacking the softness required of his gender. He remembered blood in his mouth and smoke in his lungs. He remembered the snow like an embrace and the constancy of his Master’s voice, reminding him that he didn’t know real pain, not yet. He remembered sleepless nights reading, writing down, and memorizing authors of Criminology, Social Sciences, Chemistry, Physics, Forensic analysis, Law, as they were holy text until their words became hymns and holy rites in his mind.

 

In almost fifteen years abroad, he had remade himself. He learned the many masks one could wear, who you truly are and the way society sees you. And in the gap between the masks, he learned how to play the part expected of him to his favour.

 

He graduated from Yale Law and took over his family's company. He was not a delicate, pale waif of an omega. He was hard and assertive, stone and fire; a dominant omega and very proud of it. That was who he truly was. However, for his vow to be fulfilled, that had to be... Curbed.

 

Martha Wayne had been a notorious alpha. Born Martha Kane, she was not only the heir to the Kane Chemical fortune and a member of one of Gotham City's wealthiest families, but she was also a party alpha, a socialite, and the most eligible debutante the city had ever known, frequenting all the most prestigious country clubs, night clubs, and soirees. She also had a heart of gold and often used her family's wealth and status to champion causes and charities before she even went to college

 

Bruce crafted his mask to emulate hers the best he could. First, by acting the part of a superficial, dim-witted play omega idly living off his family's fortune and the profits of Wayne Enterprises. Nobody looked at him as a true threat. Omegas were docile things, weren’t they? Then, frequently making appearances in the company of fashionable men and women, alpha, beta and omega alike, and encouraging tabloid gossip. Pretending to be a heavy drinker also came to be a blessing. Bruce found people opened up quite a bit to you if they thought you wouldn't remember anything in the next morning. He also used his gender against high society, taking advantage of his good looks and charm to conquer his ways into the company of anyone he set his mind to and then leaving them flat without a second notice. He was an alpha eater, the tabloids would sing. A wild omega. It would take a very special alpha to conquer his heart.

 

He regretted it now. Even if the mask had saved him countless times, now, in his later years, he didn’t have the patience or the time to keep up that frivolous charade.

 

It was all nonsense. In truth, he was, and still is, a strict teetotaler, refusing even to even drink a flute of champagne, replacing the sparkling liquid with ginger ale for appearances sake. There was simultaneously less and more to him than meets the eye. Like now, crime-fighting had always accounted for most of his night hours. Though surrounded by beautiful people, Bruce had never shared his heart or body with any of them. Not even a heat.

 

Every heat he ever had was a calculated event that had to be done quickly and with methodical indifference. He hated losing his control; losing his own mind. It made his skin crawl imagining someone else seeing him so open, broken. Everything was control. Batman couldn't be an omega. Or an alpha for that matter. Batman had to be greater than Man itself. He had to be a concept that resonated throughout time; Fear; the Night. Batman couldn't lose control. Everything had to be predicted and a response had to ready. Batman was always ready. Batman always had a plan. Everything...

 

"Sir?" The familiar voice came muffled by his bedroom door. "Master Bruce?"

 

"Yes, Alfred?" He called, taking note that he, in fact, had lost quite a while staring at the the door of his closet.

 

"If you don't hurry up, sir, you will miss the benefit." The older man said, coming into the room, giving him an encouraging fatherly smile.

 

In the ensuing years, he was able to hone his hard earned skills under the mantle of The Batman because of Alfred. Alfred was a beta, he showed that in his control and diplomatic nature. However, the man was much like himself, filled with secrets. He had been in the army at some point, only to leave for a - according to small stories he had told Bruce - a private military force. He was the one that first taught Bruce how to mask his scent, how to turn childish games like pretend into skills. Alfred was a beta, but he could mask himself into an alpha and command with an iron fist. Or he could become an omega and be nurturing and kind. It was uncanny how flawlessly he could pull it off. He had, in the years that passed, used all the extent of his abilities for (and sometimes, against) the Wayne heir. Alfred was the one that kept him going and alive. The only family he had left.

 

For that alone Bruce tried to smile back, but failed. There was absolutely nothing to be gained by mindless elite chatter. People had died… So many people had died. They had to be avenged. Their families should be protected. He really didn't want to go. What he really wanted to do was--

 

"Don't make that face." Alfred ordered in a light tone, making his way to the walk in closet. "It might get stuck like that,"

 

"Very droll" Bruce huffed back, but gave a genuine, albeit small, smile.

 

He didn't want to go and be Bruce Wayne, play omega, billionaire and philanthropist. He didn't want to go and make light of the tragedy that had destroyed his city. He did not want to sanctify the alien who did it. He. Didn't. Want. To. Go.

 

"Come on, chop chop" Alfred urged him, bringing with him one of his many suits.

 

"Alfred--" But the englishman would have none of it.

 

"No." Was his initial response, hard and unwavering. An alpha's tone that set a steel rod in Bruce's spine. He felt like a boy sometimes, when Alfred used that tone. Then, a more gentle one, alongside that same fatherly smile. "You still have a life to live, master Bruce." He remembered those words. They still hurt, no matter the tone chosen to deliver them. Alfred laid the suit for him and took the shirt and tie. "The sun is still rising in the east. The world is still spinning." He started, dressing his charge as if he was a child. Bruce tried to pull back and do it on his own, but Alfred did not budge, only giving him a look that told him that whatever he was doing was bigger than his actions and he should stay put and listen. "I know what you're a thinking." The beta stated, his lips a thin line of displeasure.

 

"Oh really?" Bruce smirked, tilting his head upward, easing the way for the tie. "And, pray tell, what am I thinking about?"

 

"You're thinking about going to war." And God, how he hated how the old man was always right. Alfred smiled a humorless smile at his frown, giving him space to get his pants on. "I've been here ever since the day you were born, master Bruce." He said, both fond and morose at the same time.

 

"That son of a bitch brought war to us, Alfred." He growled, accepting the belt that was given to him. "I shouldn't be going. I should stay and--" His words failed him, the fire of his hate and anger burning them up before they escaped his throat.

 

"You know you can't win this." Alfred said, helping him with the suit jacket. "It's suicide." Brushing his shoulders, the butler circled him with a sad look in his eyes, but a firm set in his jaw.

 

“It always is” He snipped and hated himself for it. He hated this. He despised every second he had to argue with the only family he still had. “All of them, all those criminals we put away, Alfred. We were the ones that took them out." He finished,  already knowing the rebuttal. He could see it in his butler's eyes. _At what cost?_ Those old, wise eyes asked before his lips ever could. "Everything has a weakness, Alfred. Even these aliens"

 

He heard rather than saw Alfred sigh. They'd danced to this song so many times before. It was tiring for them both. Alfred would not stop pushing and Bruce would not move. There was nothing to it. No grandiose speech that would change his mind. No bribe that would distract him. Alfred knew Bruce was going to go after that alien like the devil himself and would most likely encounter a hundred and one ways to get himself killed before noon without his help. "... Do at least try to enjoy yourself tonight, sir," There was a plea in there. A plea for normalcy. A plea to reconsider.

 

Bruce gave him a look, one that told him exactly what he thought of the whole notion.

 

Alfred gently combed his hair and Bruce almost felt like a child once more. And to complete that feeling, the englishman said: "It is for a good cause. You do remember that there are other people in the world? People that look to you as a role model?" Bruce scowled at him, but Alfred kept on. "There is still work to be done in this world. Work for the Batman. Work for Bruce Wayne." He said rather firmly. “You can’t change the world with only one of them.”

 

“Alfred, there is no more time for Bruce Wayne. This is a war” Bruce Wayne had done his share for the world and hadn’t gotten far. They needed something stronger. They needed—

 

“There are doors in this world that cannot be opened by mere ideas and shadows, master Wayne.” He said, each hand firmly planted on each side of his hips. “Some doors need more than that. They need… Charisma and intelligence instead of brute force.”

 

“What are you talking about, Alfred?”

 

 “Lex Corp has out won your covert bids for the government contract to study the extraterrestrial technology left behind after the battle.” He then informed, holding out the Gotham Gazette’s financial section were Lex Luthor’s face looked straight back at him. “Though our less than legal sources may give us some clues to what may help neutralize the god like powers of your… Opponent.”

 

Bruce looked at the paper for the longest time. His brilliant mind was ablaze with millions and millions of questions, hypotheses, plans and assumptions that needed to be confirmed or denied immediately. He took the paper from the butler’s hands and set it down. “Fine.” He huffed slightly but acquiesced. He’d give this mission to Bruce Wayne, if only for the older man’s sake.

 

There was a pleased look on Alfred’s face and Bruce, though he would never admit it out loud, always found strange comfort in that expression. As if he had been sailing adrift without knowing and that look was his shore. He wanted to smile. But then, the clock rang and that expression was gone. “Oh goodness, look at the time! You’re going to be _extremely_ late.” Alfred reminded him once more.

 

With a frown, Bruce allowed himself to be pushed out of several doors as the butler kept ranting on about etiquette and standards. “It’s fashionable to be late.” Was his retort, “I believe even the Queen follows that rule.” He continued putting a tired smile on the other’s face.

 

“Not an hour, sir”

 

Bruce smiled and touched Alfred’s arm. Both reassuring himself and his only family that no matter what, they were still what they always were and that nothing, not even a discussion, would change that. “Don’t wait up for me, Alfred” He asked, even though his words sounded as an order.

 

“I trust you’ll behave with some amount of decency, sir.” There was a hand on his for a brief moment, a small squeeze and then it was gone. “Now, go!” He ordered, opening the car door.

 

“So bossy.” But there was warmth in his voice as he obeyed.

 

He really didn’t want to go.

 

But Alfred was right. (Alfred was always right, in the end)

 

There was still work to be done for Bruce Wayne.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  


Always a strange experience, even after years of journalism, to mingle with the high society. Clark never quite got the hang of it, preferring much more to do stories on folks that wouldn’t mind the cadence of his accent, the plainness of his clothes. Or just folks that did things that _mattered_. He was here now, feeling much more like an alien than he felt regarding his actual identity, trying not to bump into important businessmen, holding carefully the free glass of champagne, daring not to taste the small, fancy hors d'oeuvres passed around in silver platters by beautiful waitresses and waiters. It felt weird being here too, since his secret identity was the subject of the evening. The tang of guilt, too, like something foul he thought people could smell in his breath. To be the bearer of the crime and the truth, to know exactly where the slaughter caused by Zod started and and his own fault began, was a hard job. He tried not to ask himself the most difficult questions, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to move.

 

He moved among the crowd, writing small notes on a cheap notebook. He was not all too friendly with cellphones, sticking to the classics. He had been mocked a lot because of it, but he didn’t care much. It was a surprisingly slow night, and he was getting bored. He saw Peter, the photographer, next to the food tables and thought about talking to him. But then somewhat of a commotion started, and people navigated in excited whispers and chatter to the entrance. Clark followed them.

 

Below the flashes of dozens of cameras came a black car, a beautiful vintage Aston Martin. Suddenly the night didn’t feel slow anymore.

 

“Who is he?” Clark asked a nearby colleague as a man step out of the car.

 

“You must be new.” A mockery. He didn’t mind it, really. His full attention on the latest arrival. “That’s Bruce Wayne.”

 

Bruce Wayne? He _knew_ about him, having seen his surname scattered across cities, in tall, modern-looking buildings; having read about him a few times, his name always connected to charity organizations and bold economic moves. But now he met the face, the handsome man behind the deeds. Wayne had that somber beauty found in 1940’s movies, and the smile only touched his lips briefly, not for one second reaching his eyes.  He was an Omega too, Clark had read somewhere, but being both an alien and a boy from a small town made out of betas that didn’t mean much to him.

 

Until now.

 

As the crowd thickened around the billionaire Clark fell back inside, patiently waiting his turn. His interest had been peaked and he wanted an actual exchange of words, not just the scraps Wayne was throwing at the reporters.

 

Bruce looked at the flock of reporters with nothing but disdain in his heart and a smile on his face. Always such a show stopper, he was. No matter what time he arrived at an event, be it early or late, there they were, like vultures, the flashes of their cameras pecking his eyes. He smiled good heartedly, waving off questions with the excuse of being late to greet the host. God! He didn’t want to be here!

 

Looking around for Luthor, he could see some of the pieces he had donated to the benefit. Someone had the gall to donate a bicycle! He could barely hold the roll of his eyes. God! One hour. He was giving this damn place one hour of his precious time and then he was gone. Now where was Lex so they could pretend to be best friends and smile for the crowd?

 

“Mr Wayne? A voice called to him from the back. He didn’t want to look… But he did.

 

Opening a warm smile to the caller. “That’s my name. But please, call me Bruce.” He said, wishing for a fork to jab at the back of his hand. _So help me God, if they ask me what I’m wearing one more time…_ “What can I do for you…” One whiff. And then another. Bruce cocked his head to side ever so slightly, almost curiously. A scent blocker? That was new. He put back the smile on his face and his hands in his pockets. “Mister…?” He tried.

 

“Kent. Clark, I mean. You can call me Clark.”  He smiled and offered his hand. Something off-putting about the other, as if _he_ was the one with a secret identity. Something judgemental  in those dark eyes. For a moment Clark felt like a freshman trying to get his first interview again. “I’m a reporter from the Daily Planet. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

 

Bruce offered his hand with a practised, graceful gesture; just like omegas should, but he did not avert his eyes. He kept looking at those very blue, very clear eyes. “A pleasure, mr Kent.” He said, his gaze flickering through the man’s frame, measuring him. Tall, almost as tall as himself. Very well built, though not as apparent as his height. If he could make an educated guess, by testosterone alone the man was an alpha. Though, he didn’t seem to enjoy being one. Mr Kent seemed to hide his rather impressive built with god awful cheap suits, that made him look rather pudgy in the middle. He also seemed to hunch. His handshake was soft but his hands were rough, which screamed hard labour. That combined with his quaint, almost rural tone, Bruce could bet his fortune that the man came from the hicks of the mid-west, maybe even Kansas. He also wore glasses with no prescription to hide a rather beautiful face. He did this in the instant between one inhale and one exhale. By the time he opened his mouth to respond, he already had an opinion: A farmboy who came to the big city after dreams of grandeur. Perhaps he was bullied at school and made it a point to become stronger and bigger, but still had… Christian (Catholic, maybe?) guilt about such violent desires and so, he hunched, to not draw attention to himself and get into confrontation. He wanted to fit in and to be respected, hence the scent blocker, the suit and glasses. “I don’t think I have anything left to say about this tragedy, mr Kent.” He said, with that same Bruce Wayne smile, though pitying and impatient on the inside. This farmboy must have heard about his fame and his loss during the incident. He must have thought that Bruce would just give him his first big scoop. “It was senseless, as most tragedies are.”

 

Clark held back the will to smile, to ease the situation for the other. A good boy’s habit. He knew he was being judged and had been found lacking in whatever handsome billionaires look for in young reporters.

 

“I was hoping to talk about the Batman, actually” he said, the gentle tone of his voice almost teasing in its softness, enjoying the fleeting glimpse of surprise in Wayne’s features. “You must have an opinion about him.”

 

 _Well, this was new_.  He blinked, which in Bruce’s language was the equivalent of a gawking mouth. “The… Batman?” Why the hell did this reporter want _his_ opinion on Batman? Bruce straightened his spine, that familiar feeling of mistrust running through his veins. What did he _know?_ “Didn’t he die or something?” He asked in a very casual, socialite tone, fluttering his lashes and smiling sweetly. “I’ve been a bit busy, you see? Rebuilding my company and trying to help as I can in rebuilding what’s left of my city.”

 

“Hard to miss it, Mr. Wayne. It’s been all over the news.” Clark replied, gaining time. Bruce had pretty eyelashes and a dashing (although probably fake) smile that scrambled the words in Clark’s brain for a second. His smell, too. Something good about it, like the scent of a clean bed he was yet to sleep in. _Focus Clark._ “He’s running around, branding criminals, acting as if he’s above the law.“

 

He narrowed his eyes as the corner of his lip turned up in a controlled smirk. A slip in his armour. “Where did you say you were from, mr Kent?”

 

“The Daily Planet.”

 

“Oh yes, of course. Please, pardon me” There was an art to this. An art of control and rage. This opportunistic hillbilly wanted a headline from him? Fine by him. His peers should’ve warned him, though. Bruce Wayne was called an alpha eater for a reason. “I think the Daily Planet calling anyone ‘above the law’ is a bit hypocritical, don’t you think mr Kent?” He smiled sweetly, taking a flute of champagne from a passing waitress and fiddling with it as his dark eyes pierced the reporter down. “Taking to question that every time that a kitten gets stuck in a tree, your so called hero tears half the city trying to save it and all you do is write a fluff piece editorial.” He shrugged, looking around at the glistening lights and the talking crowds. “Maybe it’s the Gotham in me,  but we don’t take kindly to clowns in costumes.” He tilted his head to side, a satisfied smile on his face as he waited for the other’s response. If there was any. He looked like he was either going to cry or hurt Bruce. _Mediocre._

 

Clark knew he wasn’t dealing with a empty-headed socialite and yet the width of Bruce’s claws, the sharpness of his wit surprised him. He felt anger, actual anger at his words. And a particular kind of guilt that defied reason. All those things he wanted to say, stuck in his throat, barred by his name. He wasn’t Superman here, he was just Clark. Why would he care if Bruce Wayne hated him? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

 

“Mr. Wayne-” He started but was interrupted by Lex Luthor. The man was smiling like he knew a particularly funny joke he wasn’t willing to share with anyone. Clark looked at Bruce one last time, letting the tension dissolve with Lex’s presence, who was a fine character for an interview himself. But Clark was completely focused on Bruce now.  

 

As an omega, Lex Luthor fit the bill more than Bruce ever could. He was small and dainty; delicate all over in a way that caught the eye of many an alpha still to this day. However, those in the industry knew better. Luthor was as ruthless as he was cute, and was a force to be reckoned with. Bruce had business still with the other omega, however this was not the time. This was the time to show that he could be a team player and dance to Luthor’s tune. So he smiled at Lex’s jokes and he graciously let him leave to see to the other guests, calculating that there was still another hour and at least one purchase to go before he could leave. He looked around yet, there was still one Clark Kent beside him; looking at him. “Yes?” He asked wanting nothing more than to tell him to hit the road.

 

Against his better judgement, Clark rekindled the previous subject:

 

“So, _officially,_ you think the… alien is a menace?” He smiled, using the word _officially_ to feign an indifference he didn’t actually feel.

 

“We’re all here because of what he did, mr Kent.” Bruce pointed at the whole spectacle.

 

“Maybe we wouldn’t be here _at all_ if it wasn’t for him.”

 

“I agree.” Bruce conceded with another sharp smile. “If he had stayed where he came from, none of those poor people would have died because of him and his kind.”

 

“You are a smart man, Mr. Wayne. You know what I mean.”

 

“Oh, mr Kent,” Taking a step forward, Bruce crowded the reporter’s space. He knew this tacit by heart, so he did it seamlessly and accurately. “I hope you know that,” He smiled and closed his face to Kent’s, his mouth dawning against his ear. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.” And then he stepped back, making a show as his eyes racked the other’s body. “Though call me when you become relevant.” He winked and a friend (if there were such things in places like these), Tony, called him over. “Please, excuse me.” And, like Lex before him, he left.

 

It was a strange feeling, to leave that man behind. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. As if… As if he were giving his back to lion. He looked back and there was nothing but a flabbergasted reporter in the place of the menace that his instinct cried out. Pursing his lips ever so slightly, he put the thought aside. No matter what it was, it would have to be dealt with later.

 


	2. Chapter 2

They came, like rats out of the sewers; like vultures from the sky; the most wretched, horrible types of criminals the country could produce, to come pick clean the bones of his city. Destruction was such a profitable business these days.

 

The liars, the crooks, the corrupted and corruptors all came flocking, from all corners of America and, to add insult to injury, even from across the bay… from Metropolis itself,  to the new land of opportunity: Gotham, ground zero. One group wanted the new available government contracts to clean the city streets. The other wanted to use the new under armed police force’s disadvantages to take control of the eastern docks. One politician wanted to rebuild Gotham for the Mafia. Another wanted to rebuild it for himself. 

 

All those lives… All those people… Even their memorial was part of some scheme or other.

 

All those years, fighting tooth and nail against these types; these criminals. All the sacrifice… Not only from him, but from Dick, Tim… And Alfred… And Gordon. And Jason. All of it gone. Like a mighty wind, everything they had dedicated their lives to was gone, left in the ashes of where Gotham used to stand; stained by the blood of the people they couldn’t save. Like it never happened. Like it never existed. 

 

It was… Unacceptable. Somebody had to do something.

 

_ Don’t. Stop _ .

 

“Master Wayne--”

 

He leaped into the hostile building, his mind running loops around all the possible scenarios the dimwitted thugs could possibly conjure up. They heard him when Batman wanted to be heard. He could smell their fear through damp, crumbling walls. He could see them pointing their guns to the logical entrance point.  _ Idiots _ , he found himself thinking, cutting a hole right under their feet. A jump and there were the bullets. He felt them, crushing against his plates of armor. It hurt and he could feel the familiar bloom of bruises even through the adrenaline. His fingers curled around one barrel and took it from the assailant’s unexpecting body, hitting the thug with the rifle’s butt before destroying it. A punch and swing came blind from his left. Batman ducked and countered, bashing the man’s head against the pillar. An uppercut. He picked one of them up and threw the man at his peers. A takedown and three men found themselves on the ground and a battered skull in his hand. 

 

Four men came at him and he could see the silver of knives. His cape was bellowing behind him and it encompassed his prey as he sprung into new action.  He might be getting slow with old age but not any weaker. With the training of a lifetime, he let instinct fight this battle as his mind took note of the rest of his targets. He threw a man against a wall. Another one against a door. He elbowed a thug in the head and then, gaining momentum, punched another in the temple. Turning on his heels, he locked one of them in a choke hold, looking at the remaining goons. 

 

They screamed, growled. Their despair, anger and fear filled the warehouse as some ran to recharge their guns. Others just ran. That… Was unacceptable.

 

Batman lunged himself in to fray, his hand already on his belt, taking four batarangs and sending them flying. He would never shoot to kill but he damn sure was shooting to paralyze. One went in a leg. The other went in a gun. The third, in an arm. The fourth… Got away. “Alfred….” He called and, instead of a response, heard the sound of the plane dealing with the one who escaped. He sighed a ‘thank you’, taking pause to count his quarry. In his silence, his body screamed at the overexertion. 

 

He sighed softly. Too many sleepless nights. Too many crimes to stop. He gathered the battered mass of criminals, most betas and alphas, and lined them up, binding their limbs to the iron chains of the containers before gathering the one that had gotten away; the only one left still awake.

 

Taking the beta by the hair, Batman dragged him to his fallen comrades, bound and begging.

 

“Do you know who I am?” He asked, his voice modulator masking and deepening his voice.

 

“T-the B-Batman…” The man squealed and Batman smirked, raising a batarang to the man’s view. The beta screamed. It wouldn’t be his last before Batman sent him and his crew back across the bay where they came from. 

 

_ “Master Bruce…” _

 

_ Don’t. Stop.  _

 

“Brucie!” Lex shrill tone woke the last of him that coffee had failed to. “Welcome! Welcome!”

“Lex! Thank you for inviting me.” The billionaire said, discreetly stifling a yawn.

 

Too many sleepless days. After locking arms with Lex Luthor at the benefit, Bruce strived for them to be as thick as thieves ever since. He made it a duty to, almost every other day,  write, call or see the other omega, even going so far as to make the insufferable journey to Metropolis when beckoned by Luthor. To the world, Bruce knew what they looked like: the gossipy, sweet omegas talking about something inane that omegas talk about. Shopping. Alphas. Something or other in that stereotypical brand of nonsense. To those who knew them, however, they were discussing trade, patents, theories and science with a viciousness most predators would be envious of.

 

Luthor had the upper hand in this particular case, having out betted Wayne Enterprises in the military bidding. It was a market that he was familiar with. Ever since his father’s death, Lex was a ruthless pursuer of anything military. In fact, it remade his fortune. 

 

Bruce never cared for those dealings until the moment he needed them. He abhorred guns ever since his parents’ deaths. When he came to power, he lead the company as far away from the military sector as humanly possible, choosing to keep the company’s interests as diverse as his own. However what he lacked in armament investments, he exceeded in technological fair. There was no company in the western world that could come close to compare to Wayne Enterprises and Luthor knew it.

 

So, while the world made up sugar coated stories about their brunches and ‘dates’, Luthor and himself got down to brass taxes. It was tough. Luthor despised to be made to feel or look inferior to others and Bruce… Well, he could never compare to Bruce. While Luthor came from money, he came from  _ new _ money. His father made his fortune on the stock market and his mother came from a nobody family. They were never seen as quite respectable or influential as the older families. In fact, Bruce heard that many times they were dismissed from guest lists back in the day because of such… ill notions. It was a stigma that Lex fought ardently against to this day and a mighty chip on his vain shoulder. And Bruce… Well, Bruce came from one of the founding families of Gotham. His parents were heirs to their respect family fortunes and were seen as shining paragons of their communities. A trait that was passed on to their offspring. It was almost unfair to compare the two of them. But Lex did. Constantly. He didn’t say it out loud, but Bruce felt it with every item discussed.

 

He wanted to be respected. He wanted to be his _ better _ . And it was not going to happen.

 

Bruce was not vain enough to let the subtle yet sharp comments get to him. He was a man on a mission, after all. But he also knew that Lex Luthor was a backstabbing, manipulative, heartless omega. So, instead of becoming rigid as a rock as the younger omega expected, Bruce allowed himself to be fluid for the first time in years, using flattery, wit and cunning to get his point across. 

 

It took time, of course, but in the end… He made it happen.

 

After many heated conversations, it was decided that Lex Corp and Wayne Enterprises would work together on the alien tech acquired in the attack. Lex Corp would have access to Wayne labs, facilities and equipment  _ in loco, _ to better study and develop new findings, keeping all military patents for itself while Wayne Enterprises was privy to said technology, all data provided from Lex Corp and the US Military about the alien life forms, their ships and machines; and all other patents, from mechanical engineering of the ships to the terraforming machine. 

 

_ “Bruce…” _

 

_ Don’t. Stop. _

 

There he was. His symbol sprayed across the roof of a house. Not a red cross. Not a sign for help. But that stupid ‘s’ all over the roof as the family huddled together and prayed, calling out to their savior. And there again, in the middle of a crowd of outstretched hands, trying to touch him as if he were a religious figure. And again, flying across the sky, bringing satellites down on a whim.

 

There, his initial findings. The dead aliens’ dna made his computer whirl as they tried to deconstruct its code and compare it to a human helix. It was hard to know where to start. He had no idea what kind of being could be a carbon based life form and yet… So indestructible. How could he fly? How could he destroy whole buildings with his eyes? Where did it come from? Even diamonds had their weaknesses, after all.  

 

There… Schematics of their weapons and aircrafts, covertly stolen from Lex Corp servers. Bruce had no doubt that Luthor would probably try and do the same to his company. It was standard practice between them. However, Bruce had greater secrets than industrial ones, giving him a head store in their merry little war. Everything he stole from Lex never got to Wayne Enterprises. It all came here, to the Cave, to be analyzed by the greatest computer ever made.

 

Photos of the attack were littered on the wall, prominent military figure heads that dealt with the alien along with theories Alfred and himself made after gathering evidence. Though they were all digital nowadays, the billionaire found that physical demonstrations helped make better connections.  Bruce tried not to think about how he missed a certain calligraphy next to his bold one and Alfred’s elegant penmanship. No. He couldn’t think about that now.

 

There…. There…

 

His eyes ran from screen to screen; place to place; as if following the movements of his prey, unflinching. There was never good enough evidence left behind. Partial fingerprints that could belong to anyone. There were never reliable witness. All star struck idiots, calling the menace an ‘angel’ and ‘savior’, as if he were the embodiment of the Second Coming. There was never a good shot of the bastard. Not even with the best cameras, he was always a god damn blur. 

 

_ Goddamn it! _

 

“Bruce!” An authoritative voice rang right next to his ear, making the vigilante jerk violently away from its source.

 

“Alfred—“

 

“Stop.” The englishman commanded. And Bruce, despite himself, obeyed.

 

Bruce could feel it. Alfred rarely used it but it was there… The domineering pull of an alpha’s presence. Bruce pursed his lips, frowning slightly. He had been the leader of his own little pack for years. One would think that he wouldn’t just roll over and obey. However Alfred’s eyes were hard and unwavering, leaving no room for arguments of control. “What the hell, Alfred?” Bruce still tried, though.

 

“It’s time for you to stop.” Alfred said, it as an order, and Bruce still didn’t know how the man shifted so seamlessly into the role.

 

“No.” He responded and was proud of the strength in his voice as he stared the other man down.

 

_ Don’t. Stop. _

 

“Even you have gotten too old to die young, not for lack of trying” The englishman snarked, taking a step forward. “It’s time to let the machines do their jobs. You,” he pointed at him. “Need to stop and get out of this cave.”

 

Bruce took a step back, defiantly. “No.” He stubbornly insisted. “I have a mission.”

 

“It will still be here when you’re rested.”

 

“I have a job to do. I have an obligation—“ Bruce gesticulated to all the photographs on the wall.

 

_ Don’t. Stop.  _

 

“And I have an obligation to keep you alive, so—“

 

“And who keeps those innocent peop—“

 

“There are police! Firefighters! The survivors! They still live and—“ Alfred listed on his fingers before cutting forward, almost crowding the Wayne heir against the work table.

 

“Twenty years in Gotham... how many good guys are left? How many will stay that way now?”

 

_ Don’t. Stop. You have a mission. A responsibility to your city; to the memory of the people you couldn’t save because you became soft. _

 

“The world does not depend solely on you, Bruce! It was spinning before you—“

 

“It almost stopped because of those monsters! They leveled cities and murdered—“

 

_ Don’t. Stop. They all died because you hid. You did nothing. You were nothing. Don’t you dare stop. _

 

“They are dead now!”

 

“There is still  _ one _ left alive!”

 

“You started a war with him—“

 

“He's the one that brought the WAR. TO _. US!” _ Bruce roared, ire and hurt soaring through his veins. “Count the dead, Alfred. Thousands of people,  _ DEAD,” _ Bruce huffed. “What's next? Millions?” He slammed his hands on the countertop, making papers and supplies fly to the ground. “He has the power to wipe out the entire human race and if we believe there is even a 1 percent chance he is our enemy then we have to take as an absolute certainty!”

 

“Bruce—“

 

“And we have to  _ destroy _ him.”

 

The beta pursed his lips and Bruce knew he had so many other things he wanted to say. Those dark eyes running over his face, worried and also. forlorn. Bruce furrowed his brow, hating that stare; hating that he did this to his one and only family. But Alfred was strong and so was he.

 

“We will.” Alfred said in that moment, his voice like steel itself. “But that day is not today.” Despite the order of his words give the idea of reassurance, there as only an order. “That day will never come when you can barely stand up.”

 

“Alfred—“

 

“Listen to me, Bruce.” There, again; That tone… That tone of a parent. It made him want to shut up and obey. “You have already done everything humanly possible to decipher your new target.” Alfred touched his arms, feeling coursing through the younger man’s body. “All the R & D divisions are working overtime. You and mr Luthor have been working overtime. There are too many variables to make a good attack plan.” 

 

“We’ve gone against tougher odds,” Bruce countered, stubborn to the end.

 

“But all our opponents were  _ human _ ,” Alfred argued and that shut him up. “Even if they thought differently… All your rogues had human brains and human hearts. They moved, felt and bled… Human.” Alfred’s hands climbed to his shoulders, pulling him down. “You have decided to make an enemy of an unknown entity that has yet to show if he can even bleed.” He shook the younger man slightly. “You have invaded and desecrated his territory. You’ve called him out…” There was huff and Alfred shook his head. “You foolish  _ boy. _ ”  

 

“Alfred…”

 

“This is how it starts, Bruce.” Alfred warned. “This is how innocent people die. With arrogance and foul planning.” He accused. “You wish to advance on, thinking you are hot in the trails of discovery but… The fever, the rage, will give you nothing. You are cornering a prey stronger than yourself.” Alfred shook him again before letting go. “You seem to forget everything I have taught you. You forget that… the feeling of powerlessness can turn good men... cruel.”

 

It was a double accusation and it stung red in his heart. 

 

Bruce felt himself choke slightly with the layers of hurt brought forth by Alfred’s words and he furrowed his brow further, scowling to mask what he could. Not that he could hide anything from the old man. Alfred knew him like the back of his hand.

 

His silence was his defeat and Alfred knew it as well. “Go to bed, Bruce.” He ordered, a gentler tone than the previous one. “I’ll keep watch.”

 

Still choking, he could neither thank nor argue with his butler and chief of security. He simply… stalled, for as long as he could before huffing and making his way upstairs, away from the frustrating, maddening, authoritarian presence of the beta. He despised Alfred sometimes. Especially the times when he was right. 

 

_ Don’t… Stop… _

 

He wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream. He wanted to bring the fires of hell to earth and _ burn _ every sinner he could find with his symbol so the Devil himself would know who sent them when they went under. He didn’t want—

 

He couldn’t _ fail _ again.

 

Bruce buried his fingers in his own hair, hunching forward in the elevator. He firmly closed his eyes. His shoulders weighed down with exhaustion finally catching up to him… And guilt. He breathed in, slowly. And the he lunged himself forward and punched the steel wall of the metal cage until the doors opened once more. Blood dripped from busted knuckles. Bruce breathed out, slowly; controlled.

 

He let blood stain the pristine floors, counting each drop as if they were ounces of his frustration; calming himself. Alfred was right. He needed to keep it together. He needed a plan.

 

However… Even with that in mind, it was hard to lay his head. Visions of that fateful day kept assaulting his brain every time Bruce closed his eyes. There. Wayne Tower going down. There. The great cloud of dust rising high, like a terrorist attack. There. The sound of people screaming in horror. There. Fire. There. Death.

 

Bruce sighed, tossing and turning under the covers before reaching out and grabbing his tablet. Opening up the web browser, the page of the Daily Planet appeared with the new puff piece about  _ him _ , the alien. He realized he was too tired to read the cursed article but he could see the stellar shot of his adversary.

 

So strong... So powerful…

  
_ A menace _ . Bruce thought, his eyelids heavy as he touched the screen.  _ I will take you down _ , he thought as he finally allowed himself to stop and fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for reading and sorry for the delay (life sorta happened but we're back on track now)!


	3. Chapter 3

It’s the light before the sound that wakes him. Sweetly, he fits in the tropes: he used to rise with the dawn, when the last stars were yet to fully fade against the painting of the morning sky. He’d hear the twittering of birds outside, their songs filling the air as the dark blue of night let itself become grey and then bright blue with the sun’s warm light. His parents would rise with him, their heartbeats as steady as the lives they made for themselves in the good land of Kansas. Here, in Metropolis, waking up was not so early or gentle. Before even opening his eyes, he could feel the trains already running and the city humming with life and work. Clark opened his eyes and then closed them again with a sigh, indulging himself and relaxing once more against the toasty warm covers. He’s just as human as any man who begs, quietly, for five more minutes of sleep.

 

Sloth is half the reason. The other is lust.

 

Clark groans and gives in, his body slowly emerging from the mess of the sheets. He sleeps almost naked nowadays. It’s a rare thing for the man of steel to feel cold, after all.

 

He sighs. The truth is: he’s ashamed. The column on Bruce Wayne was due today and what he wrote was a poor excuse of journalism. He should’ve worked harder on it but, then again, Perry White shouldn’t have put him in the gossip department to begin with. He tried. He really did try! But he didn’t know how to do it. All the excessive use of adjectives, the overly indulgent praise laid open the events, the mocking yet excited tone people choose when writing about the rich and famous… He didn’t care about the rich and famous! He didn’t care about debutantes or whom they’re wearing. He didn’t care about golf parties. He didn’t care about Mr. Wayne’s extravagant car and his Tom Ford suits.

 

There is a sigh on his lips yet again. That wasn’t exactly true now, was it? Like a true boy scout, he couldn’t tell a lie, not even to himself. He cares about Bruce Wayne. Or at least his body does. Another sigh came out of him, one of shame and hopeless pining. Why? Because he dreamt of him, of Bruce Wayne, so pretty in front of him; stripped bare of his fancies, for Clark’s eyes only.

 

In the dream made of summer colours, his hands know what his mind doesn’t and they make Bruce _ache._ He can still hear his moans, soft contained strips of music against his ears as the billionaire begs, ever so sweetly, for him; for his touch and affection. His palms still feel warm like in his dream. The socialite was warm and needy under him as they kiss. Clark let’s out a small groan. Oh, the kissing! Clark kissed him on the neck and let the kiss becomes a bruise; a bite, until the omega is moaning under him. The arch of his beautiful form, so submissive and tempting, his skin aflame as the omega seemed to move as fluid as water, intent on driving him insane with the delicious rut between them. The scent of him… The scent of spring and fertile things, it filled his nose and made him drunk and foolish, even in his own dream. Bruce’s body is his to map and he does so with child-like wonder, as a rough, possessive thought echoes in the midst of the heat:

 

 _Mine. This body is_ **_mine._ **

 

He’s blushing still.

 

Already up, he takes off his boxers and heads to the shower. It’s a short walk, his apartment was small enough to be cosy in his opinion and a wardrobe in Lois’. He has a small kitchen, a small bathroom and an ambiguous, slightly larger area that works as both living room and bedroom.

 

The water was blissfully cool. It feels weird, to experiencing arousal this late in life. He thought that particularly trait of humanity was lost to him. Clark loves, deeply, he is in love with Lois Lane (an incredibly smart, beautiful and kind Alpha, one of the few sharing his secret) and likes to touch her. But that. _That._ He’s never experienced _that_ before. The fever, the need. His body had never been so frantic about something – _someone –_ before.

 

It’s all… Well, a bit overwhelming.

 

He tried to think of something else. He tried and thought about his, in lack of better words, _hideout_ and the necessary addition that have to be made. It’s a slow one to built, his fort. The pieces were scattered all over the globe because of Zod and his men... but Clark was making good time. Or at least, he thought.

 

He had most of them. They weren't exactly hard to miss. However some still eluded him due to some very careful planning from sneaky governments. Governments that knew he would never hurt innocent people so they doubled, and then tripled, their security so that there was no way he would be getting any of those fragments without a messy fight.

 

As the only known living survivor of the planet Krypton, Clark believed that it was his duty to keep his heritage in check for the home he had chosen. It wasn’t safe to let humanity mess with things that it didn’t yet understand. So he took it all away. Or at least, the most that he could. Great big chunks of ships and fragments left behind from the battle, safely hidden in the neutral territories of the Arctic, where no nation could try and take them away.

 

He intended to just leave them there, let the ice and time bury it from the minds of mortal men. It was just scrap metal, after all. Right? No, actually. Contrary to his own beliefs, the small flame of Krypton persisted and continued to burn bright in spite of all the destruction it had suffered. The computers and apparatus still seemed to function quite well, even if in diminished capacity, and the ships themselves seemed to work hard to repaire and remake themselves into one operating unit.

 

At first, he had to admit he didn’t know what to do with the information. He didn’t know that much about his own race. However, as time passed, he learned. He learned a lot, actually. He learned his own language. He learned his own history. He learned about his family tree, his biological mother and father. And as he learned, the idea of having a place to himself; to think and calm his senses from the overly noisy world; to understand and make sense of it all seemed more and more appealing.

 

He didn’t plan on becoming a hermit. Not a chance. But he liked the solitude, from time to time.

 

It was a surprising revelation, to say the least. But it wasn’t the only one. There was no more Jor-El to translate the goings on in the ship’s core and it pained him. He never knew the man-- Alien… Father. He never knew his father. He never even knew he had died and how. He never once got to observe his face and compare it to his own. Never once heard his voice glow with pride or cold with a well deserved scolding. There was still some sort of artificial intelligence there and it was complacent enough to his demands, not to mention helpful… But no Jor-El.

 

It made him sad. But Clark tried not to let it get to him. It was like that old saying went: _Can’t miss what you never had._

 

Jor-El was his father but he wasn’t his Pa. Clark could distinguish that even in his more morose hours. Pa was Jonathan Kent. Pa was the one that had guided, even though sometimes blindly, through infancy to young adulthood. The man had sacrificed a great deal, just like Ma, to keep him safe and make sure he turned out alright. That was what parents were supposed to do, Clark thought. So while he would’ve liked to actually speak to his biological father, he didn’t miss him like he missed Pa and his absence wasn't the cold ache that came to remember that he’d never see Jonathan again.

 

Clark didn’t even try to think about how it would feel if he lost Ma.

 

The warmth that had stalked him from bed was long gone with such train of thought and Clark was thankful for that. His eyes and mind were sharper with that strong dose of reality than with any cup of coffee. He stepped out of the shower and could see there were two pieces of technology competing for his attention.

 

One of them was his alarm clock, announcing in that annoying, chirpy way that he would be very late if he didn’t get moving.

 

The other was his cellphone where about of a dozen messages awaited him from Lois and Perry.

 

He smiled at the phone and quickly turned off the alarm before reading through the messages at hand while getting dressed. It was a process. First, his armor then, and only then, his suit. He’s always skirting around late-ish because of this. He knows and Lois likes to remind him of that, but Clark liked to carry both his heritages with him. She knows him well. _Smallville_ , that’s what she likes to call him. And in the most endearing way possible too, prolonging the ‘s’ as she scrunches her beautiful nose in a teasing smile that comes through in the text. She orders him around in the next one, much like in real life, telling him to bring coffee and bear claws for it was bound to be a long morning and they would probably be working through lunch today (Lois because of the conflicts in the Middle East, Clark because it was the beginning of _-argh-_ ‘Gala Season’). She also reminded him of their date that thursday night at her apartment and he blushes at the mere idea of spending the night. There are also messages about stories she’s working on and asking his opinion on them before she seemed to remind herself of the hour and sending him a simple as a see-you-so-soon final message: _‘Good morning, Clark’_ , it said and his heart was aflutter.

 

He actually stopped what he’s doing to give those three little words another look. He blushes and doesn’t know what to do. Should he answer back? Should he put emojis? Maybe he should send her a picture of a puppy with a good morning caption on it? Argh--

 

But then his phone vibrates again and it’s a message from Perry. _‘Where the hell is your column?’_ Is the only demand. Clark’s eyes go wide and scan through the other messages his boss sent. Oh, gosh darn it, did he forget to send a preview of the column again? Oh… Perry sounded mad even in written word. Oh, darn. Pursing his lips, Clark looked around. His computer was an ancient thing that had a grudge against its owner. He knew that if the piece of technology got a wiff of how desperate he was to send an email, it would freeze up and probably convince his cloud drive to delete the whole darn thing. Sending it through his phone would only kill the whole format and Perry would scold him for not knowing how to manage a office word document.

 

He had to get to work. Now.

 

Finishing the knot on his tie, he bagged all his necessities inside his briefcase in lightning speed and made for the door. He looked back, as if to see if he forgot anything and saw his apartment in a state of disarray. Oh, Ma would be so appalled, he thought to himself. But there was nothing to be done about it now. So he took his keys and ran out the door, promising his Ma that he’d clean his room later.

 

Now, Clark didn’t like to cheat. He had chosen this world as his own time and time again. He had chosen to be human and not a kryptonian. So that meant he had chosen to live and be a human, flaws and all. He only liked to use his powers to help others, to protect them; to save them. It was unseemly to even consider doing anything else with them. But sometimes… And only sometimes, like now, he had to… Well, cheat a bit.

 

He looked around the moment he hits the ground floor, checking the movement. Good, not many people around. It wasn't not so busy at this hour, everyone in his neighborhood was probably locked on their way to work, in cars and buses and trains, but he still made his way warily to the alley across the street before taking flight. He’s cheating, he knows. But he’s late…. And he really, really loves to fly.

 

Never had any activity ever brought him as much joy; as much peace as taking to the air does. He closed his eyes for a second, the roar of the ascent takes every noise away. And then he is floating and every heartbeat in his city comes to greet him. Every smile warms his heart, every greeting he replies in his mind, every laugh is joined by his own… And every cry.

 

There’s someone crying. Near him.

 

He looks around and sees a young child crying out the window of a car. A doll fell out of clumsy hands on the road and the child is crying for it, like it a lost friend. Clark looks at his phone. He has time. He swoops down, locating the fallen doll, bravely saving it from the tires of another car and flying behind the veichle until it comes to a stop. He smiles at the small child and hands the toy back to its owner. “Be careful next time.” Was his advice and then he was off again after a tearful _thank you_ and a gasp from a surprised parent.

 

Clark looks at his phone again. He has time, he thinks to himself. Maybe he could stop and buy the things that Lois asked him to buy. It wouldn’t get him into too much trouble, especially if he brought enough for everybody. While weighing the pros and cons of such a decision, another cry caught his attention.

 

A robbery? This early? Clark felt his brow furrow as he jumped to action. This was one of the major differences between Metropoles and Smallville. Never, in all his life had he heard of such violence in his home town. Sure, there were randy kids that stirred up some trouble now and again but nothing like this.

 

Clark found he had very little patience for such an act so early in the morning and, given that time waited for no man, he left his change of clothes in a near a water tower and made his way quickly to the culprits. They were in a high speed pursuit with the Metropolis police but there was yet to be invented a car that could outrun him. While the burglars thought themselves free from harm after five life endangering turns (not their own, of course, but of poor, innocent folk), their smugness fled faster than their vehicle when they saw that Superman was waiting for them.

 

Leaving the robbers in the capable hands of the Metropolis PD and was about to take flight once again when he heard a small fight breaking out not a block away. Clark sighed, looking down at his wrist watch. Ok, he had time. He just needed to make it fast. He waved to the police officers and leaped over buildings to where the fight was starting to get ugly.

 

He tore the two very drunk men away with ease, listening to drunken accusations and hot blooded threats. He put them apart from each other, calmly talking to one of them. He shouldn’t have left the other one alone, though. But, really? It was too early for these kind of brawls and he was increasingly late.

 

No matter. He still saved him from going into running traffic. It was just in the nick of time, too. And, as a bonus, almost being hit by a car made the man (whose name was Carl, as Clark came to know as the man thanked him) sober up rather quickly. Clark felt that no thanking was needed (he had, after all, lost track of the man) but he was quite adamant.

 

“Isn’t there anything I can do for you?”

 

Clark paused looking around. The man who had been fighting with Carl seemed to finally give in to the exhaustion of a night of heavy drinking and had found a bench to lay on. Clark checked the man’s vital signs first, deciding that he seemed as well as he could be. Then he looked at his watch. Oh God, he was late. He looked at Carl and gave him a slightly panicked smile.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to know a good coffee place, do you?”

 

Carl seemed to perk up at the question and in less than fifteen minutes, Clark had a box full of bear claws and an arm full of hot coffee. He bought one for Carl for helping him out with the ordering and wished him a good day. This would keep him in mr White’s good graces. Hopefully, anyway.

 

He had just found his change of clothes when he heard it again. Clark groaned. He looked and there was a sweet old lady with a very young boy holding on to her skirts as they both called to something up a particularly tall tree. He felt his shoulders fall in resignation before he even made up his mind. He hid his purchases along with his clothes and flew to them, albeit with less hurry than his previous interventions, embracing the fact that he was, in fact, very late. He figured it’d hurt less that way.

 

He smiled at the old lady and waved to the young boy, both of them looking up at him in awe. He let himself float upward and, with gentle coaxing, cradled a small cat from its place stuck in the tall tree. The old lady was as sweet as she looked and thanked him again. It really had been no trouble, and Clark said as much. He heard his cellphone ringing in the distance and winced, thinking of how horribly fired he was, before saying good bye.

 

Changing into his suit and tie he saw quite a lot of text messages but was almost happy to find out that the missed call was from his mother. Relief flooded his bones and Clark sighed, before gathering his things and landing safely in an alley just out of the Daily Planet’s building’s side. He cheated just once more, using his heat vision to make sure the coffee was still nice and hot and made his way to his into the building and, if nothing went wrong, his desk.

 

The office was in a usual disarray that came with deadlines and upcoming stories. He slid by undetected as he looked around. He left his goods in the communal table, taking two coffees and two bearclaws, leaving one of each on Lois’ desk before hiding (or at least trying to) behind his own.

 

“KENT!” No such luck then.

 

“Yes, mr. White?” He smiled congenially as he lifted his head. Oh darn it all, he looked so mad…!

 

“Where the hell is my proof sheet and where have you been?!” Perry White was good boss but by no means a kind one. He was competent and very professional but there was no coddling when it came to him. You either met his standards or you were out.

 

“Erm… Traffic, sir.” He said with an apologetic turn of his lips, hunching in contrition. It bought him a zero sum of sympathy. “But! But-- Erm, I have your proof sheet right here, sir. I’m just printing it ou--”

 

“Forget it, Kent,” Perry ordered, crossing his arms. “We have a big story on our hands, so what you’re gonna do is sit your butt on that chair and find out how to cut two thirds of your piece without insulting half of our patrons and then you're going to send it to me.” That made Clark’s brows lift in surprise. “And all of this before I even think of what I’m getting for lunch, _capisce_?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Was the immediate response. Clark blinked and then there was a neuron connection. “What story, sir? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking that is…”

 

Perry looked at him like he was considering if it was even worth to answer the question but he relented. Again, good boss. “The Batman sent another message.”

 

_The Batman?_

 

His interest must have shown on his face because mr White was pointing at him and his face was scrunched up in a very upset sort of expression. It kinda reminded him of Pa… Just a little bit, anyway. “I didn’t tell you this so you could go and let yourself be distracted again, Kent.” He warned. Yup, just like Pa. “You have a job and I suggest you get to it.”

 

Clark pursed his lips, looking around and the chaos finally making sense. Every time the Caped Crusader sent them-- Oh, who was he kidding? Every time the Batman sent _him_ a message, it always made the whole news world in a tizzy.

 

Brutalized criminals carrying the brand of the Bat and letters in a language no one but Clark knew. There were a thousand and one theories about what it all meant and why the criminals weren’t kept on the other side of the bay where their crimes were committed. But Clark knew why.

 

He was being called out.

 

He sat down on his desk after a last reprimand from his boss and quickly went to work. The task was surprisingly easy because he was more than happy to cut all the useless information he had crassly added last minute to make the minimum word limit. And while he worked quickly and efficiently, his phone pinged with messages that he had yet to read. It didn’t matter, though. As he typed and cut away, the knowledge that a more important, urgent message was waiting for him burned in the back of his mind.

 

He was done before lunch and handed his proof sheet to mr White while he was hotly discussing something over the phone. He smiled at the man that never seemed to actually stop; that ate, breathed and lived the news, before leaving him be and searching out Jimmy Olsen that was the head of photography of the Daily Planet under the guise of wanting to see which pictures would be salvageable from the hundreds of events he was summarising. He waited for the photographers’ choices and used Jimmy’s distractions to find the pictures from the arrests.

 

There they were. Ten men with horrible bruises and scars. Ten red marks in shape of a bat. Ten humans that carried one kryptonian message.

 

_Come find me. Come fight me. Tonight._

 

God _damn_ it…

  



	4. Chapter 4

_Come find me. Come fight me. Tonight._

 

He could feel that annoying, familiar itch underneath his first layer of armor as he pulled metal plates into position. His skin crawled, overheated as he hooked cables to the city’s main electric grid. He had been right to reinforce his knee cops and greaves because his knees were weaker, unable to carry the same weight as before.

 

Rain trickled down the back of his neck in cold pin pricks that only drove him more and more insane. The cool rain that once calmed his thoughts felt almost like water boarding. Every drop pushing his limits as he worked alone. It was coming, he knew it. Any day now, his heat was going to hit. Bruce gave it a week.

 

He gritted his teeth and pressed on, ignoring the protests of his body. It had to be tonight.

 

It had to be...

 

He had to know that gods could bleed, and by his hand, nonetheless. It had to be tonight because he didn’t have any time left and Bruce refused to go into heat with such a creature left loose, unchecked and unstoppable. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something were to happen while he was out of his mind because of his biological curse. It had to be tonight because he couldn’t take suppressors this time around. He had staved off natural heat for too long and if Bruce didn’t let it happen this time… Well, it wasn’t something that he liked to entertain.

 

Twilight grew nearer and the cloudy sky began to gain darker hues. Bruce could feel his heart pounding like a war drum inside his chest as his world became black. He stepped into extra layers of metal, powering up his suit as he waited for nightfall. The light was leaving and darkness embraced him like an old friend.

 

He lit up the beacon of the old police department. And then he waited.

  


\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  


He was not as naive as to think the leaders of the world wouldn’t -yield- him as a weapon, given the chance. It was certainly the USA’s government's wet dream, to keep him tied to a leash, a very powerful, very nuclear rottweiler. But what a lazy mutt he would be if forced to use his strength only to harm. He didn’t like fighting. He liked protecting people, and saving them. All of him which could be used to hurt could be equally employed to mend. So he groaned like a school boy with too much homework when he thought about facing the Batman. It would be, at best, a waste of time.

 

He’d rather meet him as the journalist Clark Kent. Ask him about his beliefs and what was his beef with the last son of Krypton. It would be more civilised that way.

 

Regardless of what he preferred, between the clouds it appeared: that bat-shaped halo. _So dramatic,_ Clark thought. It was like being invited to exchange punches after school by the most eccentric, most theatrical kid in class.

 

“Ok then. I’m all yours.” he said, looking at the bat-signal, before his feet pressed into the ground heavily for an instance and his body ascended to the dark sky.  

 

Bruce heard him before he saw him. He looked up and saw. The outline of a sonic boom coming to a halt. Saw what those millions upon millions of idiots almost broke their necks to try and glimpse at. A red cape bellowing in the harsh wind of the storm. Saw the figure that had been haunting his waking and sleeping hours for months now. He saw red eyes but no face. Saw the menace they dubbed ‘Super’ and childishly compared to a man.

 

That was no man. He was never a man.

 

That was a demon.

 

He activated his suit, the metal cowl’s eyes glowing eery blue as the the computer and mechanics were good to go. The menace didn’t come down. He just looked.

 

Batman smiled. A hard, cold smile. A half crazed, angry sort of smile that was meant for feral animals rather than human beings. “Are you afraid of me?” His distorted, metallic voice crowed at the alien, challenging it. _Come down. Come into my web._

 

“No.” Clark replied, gravely, looking down. The man was wrapped in a heavy armor, but it might as well be paper. No human-made cocoon could protect him if Clark really wanted to hurt him. He didn’t, however, which made him say: “Go back. I don’t want to fight you, and if I did you’d be down already.” He warned. “Stop with the branding. Stop provoking me.”

 

Oh, he would laugh if he could. The smugness, the gall! It was almost sad that a being so powerful could be so stupid. He cocked his head to the side and melted away from the shadows that had hid him thus far. The armor heaved and thunked with the lead based aloids that reinforced it, but it was worth it.

 

Well, at least, one of them had done their homework about the enemy. All the alien had done, of course, was wear blue spandex

 

“And what are you going to do if I don’t?”

 

Clark hesitated, a little confused for a second. _What are you going to do if I don’t?_ That was such a childish phrase. And combined with that smile it made the whole thing look almost...flirty.

 

He let his eyes become reddish, scanning the body below him, searching for the identity that had eluded the world for so many years. It would continue to do so, apparently. Batman was using lead, so any attempts to see through his armour would be futile.

 

 _He’s not dumb, I’ll give him that._ But he was weak. Weaker than Clark, at least.

 

He leaped forward, a blue and red shadow in the sky, and less than one second later he had the man by the waist, and was dragging him through the dirt of the abandoned building. Nothing too rough, just enough to make him change his mind when Clark let him go with a loud thump.

 

“I told you. I don’t want to hurt you, so give up _now_.”

 

There had been no time to prepare or to brace himself. There had been rain and then there wasn’t. He had been standing and now he was on his back with the wind knocked out of him. _That_ , he admitted only to himself, _had hurt._ His suit beeped and flared with the damage both of them had taken, checking his vitals as well as all the boosters on the outer armor. Batman payed no heed to his his own body, he was familiar enough to the sensation to know that there were already bruises blooming on his skin, and checked the suit.

 

Dented but completely serviceable.

 

And more importantly, he had the son of a bitch right where he wanted him.

 

Batman heaved, as he looked up to the menace. He had one chance; one golden opportunity to test his theory and make that bastard _scared._ Maybe for the first time in his inhumane life.

 

All those months spent in disgust and fascination as the brilliant biologists of Lexcorp and Wayne Enterprises opened up and dissected the remains of the alien’s fallen brethren. He watched and _listened,_ memorized every anomaly that separated them from the human race. He read the results of all the tests that had been done on their specimens. Seeking for that fatal flaw all Gods have.

 

Kryptonians were also humanoids life-forms based on carbon. But here’s where they became monsters: The way they reacted to Earth’s atmosphere, to the sun, like plants.

 

The report on the avert reaction the alien had in the main ship, courtesy from a ms Lois Lane and the way she herself felt and subsequent blood test that were done on her were the first lights in a shadowy path towards finding the chink in the alien’s armour. That and the few reels he could get his hands on from the Krypton warriors under Zod’s command had given him a the spark for this idea. They dressed in a way that resembled astronauts. Surely their helmets kept a semblance of what was their home atmosphere and their armor was significantly heavier than what a human astronaut would need in any circumstance.

 

So he looked into the reports. Reports of terraforming machine and what was left of the kryptonian suits. Reports on radiation found and the effect of native kryptonian atmosphere on the corpses. The dense ionized air from their suits. The increase of mass of a planet, the shift in gravity and atmosphere around the machines. It told of a world with stronger gravitational pull and a denser atmosphere. It made almost too much sense.

 

Coming to Earth must have been for them like humans going to the moon. That’s why they could fly. But no one could change the gravitational pull of Earth without destroying it completely. But… The clean non ionized energy filtered from the ozone layer seemed to, based on all the biopsies done, gave them their strength. If he took it away… Could he bleed? That had to be it!

 

So, logically, he had just to cut off his wings. And other parts, as well. If the chance presented itself, anyway.

 

But first things first.

 

Batman smiled at the menace and pushed the hidden button on his suit. The hidden bombs around the derelicted building went off, flooding it with ionized radiation. It carried enough energy to rip of electrons from atoms and molecules. His dirty bombs spread a cloud of thick dust, helping the radiation spread and settle on his target. It could kill a normal human being but thankfully, he was wearing lead armor.

 

The radiation fogged the building and polluted the air. He could see its effects on the alien immediately, how he staggered, confused and dumb, looking at him in surprise. Batman pulled himself up from the rubble, closed the mouth piece below his cowl and activated his gauntlets. He pulled his arm back, the gears turning loudly. He had them enhanced to punch through 5 feet thick steel walls. He only hoped it was enough. And then he punched that stupid face.

 

“You should be afraid of me,” He growled. Batman punched him again. “I’m the ghost of crimes past.” Again, harder. Stronger. “You _killed_ all those people. All of them. Buried in a crater.” He huffed, punching the idiot in the stomach. The suit whined and Bruce felt his knees buckle. He shouldn’t stay here so long. He didn’t care. “You’re not good. You’re not brave.” Batman gave him an uppercut that made the menace fall on his ass. “Men are brave.”

  


Being a superpowered being in this tender Earth, there were things Clark didn’t get to experience. Lust, until that morning, was one of them. The other was physical pain. Zod had hurt him but this was different. Something about the way humans do it. More intimate. perhaps. How eloquently those sensations could be written over his skin. His lungs were aching and each intake of breath brought the poison deeper inside his body. Breathing was hell, not breathing too. He stilled, surprised above all. Leaving his body bare to the vigilant’s fists. He was bleeding - he could feel it, warm and sticky, trailing down his mouth. It was odd, _interesting_ in a way, that a human could do that to him, and maybe he would marvel at it more if not for the words. The words were too much.

 

He was brought back to sounds he knew he would never forget, but keep sedated with every live saved, every person that smiled at the sight of him: the halt of one thousand hearts at the same time, the crushing of concrete against human flesh, the snapping - dry, fast - of Zod’s neck.

 

“Breath it in” Batman said with his metallic voice, holding the menace up by his jet black hair. There was triumph in his voice, satisfaction even. An unseen smile of victory. He knew how to bend the Man of Steel. His free hand flew to the alien’s thick neck and _squeezed._

 

“You’re done.” He said almost with a sigh. A rush of pure dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin, bound by endorphins broke through his mind. He had cracked the case. He found the chink in the armor. He could kill God. He squeezed the alien’s neck tighter, like a noose. He through the alien on the ground and huffed. “Give up.”

 

He shouldn’t have stayed this long. He should leave. Alfred… He hadn’t even told Alfred of this crazy, wonderful idea…

 

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

 

Every mission had a purpose. He knelt over the menace’s chest, laying the full weight of his armor over that stupid symbol. “If I wanted… You’d be dead already” He growled, lifting his fist and punching down. A perfect bloody bruise for a God. _He was making God bleed,_ an insane voice rang in his head. “Give up.” He threw the alien’s words back at him, punching his throat. “You’re done.”

 

 _And you are mine,_ Clark thought, that strangeness blossoming among visions of pain, as if his skin and his mind weren’t his anymore. He felt hurt and warm all at once. He knew where the pain came from but the other… Where was that coming from? That urge to bite, to grab the flesh upon him? There was something he wanted, he never knew he wanted, underneath the armour the human was wearing. He could almost taste it.

 

He spit blood, choking, and his eyes were burning red. He had let this go on for too long. He was tired of the pain now, and most of all he needed answers. Clark sought the strength still untouched in his core and put some of it in his fist. It felt _wrong_ but he let the punch find the other’s face, let it bruise.

 

The vigilant flew back many feet with that one punch and would’ve gone further if not for the wall that he had crashed through. The armour was woefully unprepared for that sort of impact and was now falling apart. He knew it would never be enough. No metal on earth could survive a true punch from the alien. But he had hoped to get away from the radiation before it fell apart around him.

 

The Dark Knight gritted his teeth, pulling himself as best he could from the rubble and using the hole his body had made to make a strategic retreat away from the derelicted building and the fall out. He had left a message to the Gotham PD about it. He hoped they wouldn’t be stupid not to take it seriously.

 

His armor was falling and his mask was crumbling on the left side of his face as he tried to speed off to the shadows with at least three cracked ribs but the Bat still counted it as somewhat of a victory. He made a god bleed, after all. Now... He had to get out. He had to get out now.

 

And now Batman was the breathless one and Clark used those precious moments of stillness to throw him off his body and then fly, fly an erratic flight that cleared his lungs and numbed the pain a little. He went back down, before Batman could fully pull himself together.

 

And then _Bruce_ saw him. Really saw him. Saw his body and how impressively built it was in that ridiculous blue spandex. Saw his face, set and angered. Saw his glowing eyes for the first time with his naked one. Their eyes met. Black versus blue.

 

There was a pause; a heartbeat. And the world seemed to stand still in that small fragment of time. Batman lifted his hands, to brace himself for impact, breaking the spell. And Clark then punched him again, .knocking him out. He felt cruel doing that, making the other’s head crash against concrete, but he was also angry, hurt and very confused.

  
Clark panted, watching the unconscious vigilante, considering his next actions. He had never done anything like that before. But he needed to. Resolute, then, he took the man in his arms before vanishing into the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Sorry we're so late! We do hope that you like this chapter stick around for the next one.  
> It's going to be very, very... Cool. 8D


	5. Chapter 5

He woke up.

 

A jolt of true pain ran through his body as his ribs sang, aching and bruised as he regained consciousness. It hurt to breathe. Every breath was a quick huff as his lungs filled and stung against his ribcage. His arms… He pulled at his arms and they were stiff and… Bound? He planted his feet on the ground to take the weight off his arms and let them rest as best he could. Another note of pain. Bruce hissed, pulling his wrists and the chains above his head rattled like snakes. He had been bound there for quite sometime it seemed.

 

The more impending question was: Where, exactly, was there?

 

Looking down he saw that his undersuit was still on, and rubbing his face against pained biceps, he gathered that his mask was torn but still on, as well. Which was good. To have his identity preserved was no small blessing.  Also, partial nudity was better than being undone completely.

 

But, as he moved, he felt ill. A sickness, a fevered dizziness unrelated to the aches of his bound body. His head… It felt heavy and fuzzy. Had he hit his head too hard? Was it radiation poisoning?

 

God, where was he?

 

He fought through that feeling, his head swimming in thick molasses as he looked around. Dark brown walls… Sandy floors. So dark. No windows. The only ray of light came from what looked to be a… A hatch? Were those stairs? It pained him to think now as his veins seemed to be twitching out of his skin.

 

He knew he had to be on point. He knew it. He was in a unknown location, being held location by an unknown enemy. But knowing and doing seemed oceans apart now and all he wanted was to get out and go back… Go back home. Everything was too… Real. Every scent in the air seemed so intense to his nose. The scratch of the undersuit was maddening against his skin. And his cowl, that once had given him such security, was now suffocating. He needed to go home. To the safety of his mansion, of his room, of his _nest._

 

“... Is anyone there?” He called and the modulator turned his voice into a very creepy mutation of his Batman voice and his normal one. In other words, it did it’s job wonderfully to hide how vulnerable he truly was.

 

The illness… Seemed to worsen. His head was pounding now and his sense of smell seemed… Heightened. He wasn’t… He wasn’t in America anymore. He could taste it, almost. In the air around him. He was… Somewhere dry. So very dry. Even though this… Place… Was cool, it carried heat. A heat that came only from the sun. Dry, sand, sun… Like no desert in the West. Where the hell was he?

 

Clark, covered in shadows, watched on. He didn’t like seeing people in pain. The sentiment was extended to that strange, smart human he had now taken captive. He wanted to unshackle him - there was an odd ache is his hands, as if they were yearning to touch the Batman - and offer him food and water.

 

But he needed his knowledge first. Maybe later, after he understood the knight of Gotham's beef with him, Clark could convince him that they shouldn’t fight.

 

What should he say?

 

“Good morning.”

 

Ouch. Lame. Clark blushed a little, waiting for his prisoner to fully awaken.

 

“I need to ask you some questions.”

 

Like the sharpness of the gaze of a hawk, Bruce’s eyes fell on the source of the noise. He looked at the man who had spoke, his figure draped in the shadows of the hovel. It took him a moment to notice but he wasn’t the Batman for no reason. The man came closer, having the gall to look apologetic. But it wasn’t really a man, now was it?

 

“You!” His hackles immediately raised at the sight of the alien and he tugged his hands down hard to get into a fighting stance to no avail. Flashes of unforgiving pain shot in the back of his eyes. Bruce grit his teeth as to show no weakness towards his opponent and he assumed a brisk, erect posture.

 

His stomach was doing somersaults but he took pride in the steadiness of his voice as he said: “I have nothing to say to _you.”_ His modulator wasn’t working properly but after being scrapped all over the old precinct floor, Bruce was just thankful the thing even partially worked.

 

Clark let out an impatient sigh.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He said, approaching the other man in the most unthreatening way he could muster.   

 

“You mean, more than you already have?” Bruce bit back, snarling at the alien and making him stop dead in his tracks.

 

Clark looked at him. Apparently he was another man whose words Clark had underestimated in their sharpness and sting. It made him… Not angry. Irritated, maybe. The Bat knew nothing about him, after all.  It would be so easy, to remove the mask, to unmake the secret. To _expose_ him. He took another step forward. And then... He inhaled. And all that irritation melted away. There was a thick scent of ripe fruits, something sinful, alcoholic. The sort of perfume for which millions would be invested in marketing. But it wasn’t a cologne, it was…

 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Clark explained, distracted, taking in more of that wonderful smell. “You were the one who came looking for a fight.”

 

Oh. Oh, _hell_ no. As the alien came closer, Bruce could feel his mind getting more dizzy, and yet, more… Precise. His rage breaking through the illness, even if only for a moment. It was as if… As if he was working through a blast of Scarecrow’s drugs after just having shot up the antidote. He looked at the alien, body and mind fighting against each other, his breathing shallow.

 

“You… Brought this” He said and sighed with the relief for finally being able to say it to that son of a bitch’s face. “I was there… I was right there… On ground zero. You brought that fight to every building you could. You smashed through it all like the weapon you are… You _killed_ all those people. You did _nothing_ to save them.”

 

Bruce swallowed hard, panting. “You deserve to be put in your place. You deserve to be--” Oh, his head was spinning. This felt so…familiar. “And now you know… That that can be done.” He said through his teeth. “I can stop you”

 

Clark’s lips tightened. Oh, he thought. Now it all made sense. Every little piece he knew of the Batman fell into place in ways they never did before and he felt as if he finally understood the other man. So when they opened up again, his words were soft… And so sad.

 

“I’m—I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”  And indeed he was. He didn’t hear all of them, in the midst of battle, but he felt them. Thousands of human hearts beating their last, terrified beat. “I didn’t mean for that to happen, I--” And then… He caved. Every word was true and more so, he was making the same mistake again. When he had set out to confront the vigilante, Clark had told himself he’d like to sit down and speak with the man and figure out why he hated Superman so much. And now… He was treating him like a criminal even though he had made sure that all of his weapons were left behind. “I’m sorry.” He felt ashamed as finished his approach and ripped the chains from the Bat’s wrists.

 

He cushioned the Bat’s fall, holding him even as the other man struggled, only to lay him carefully on the ground. His shame only grew with the hisses and groans of discomfort that came from the man as he massaged his arms and wrists. “I’m sorry.” He said again, in true contrition.

 

“... Why should _I_ forgive you?” Was Batman’s mocking reply, pulling away. “It’s you M.O., isn’t it alien? To do your worst and then a token gesture of kindness?” He continued with no small bite in his words. Being on the ground made him feel better. It was cool and solid under his warming skin, like a balm on an infected wound. Having less pain to deal with also made his mind clearer, sharper. He was still sick and weakened but now a little less… Distracted.

 

Clark winced like those words actually physically hurt him. He was right. He was so right. His brow furrowed and Clark took a step back, kneeling so he wouldn’t lord over his… Well, guest? He took a deep breath and that sweet smell filled his lungs. It lost its tang and seemed more… Rich. He shook his head. He had to… He had to focus. He looked at Batman who looked straight back, his face covered with patched dark war paint, very dark hair, black latex and lead. He had no idea what to say to this man. For somebody whose bread and butter were words, nothing came to mind. But Ma always told him that the truth was always best… So Clark told him the truth.

 

“I never used my powers until then.” He admitted and he saw that caught the other’s attention. Looking away to a point in the ground, he continued. “I never… I came to this planet when I was a baby and my Ma and Pa…” His expression became pinched while talking about Pa. “They thought it best if I kept it hidden.” He sighed. “And I did.”

 

Batman didn’t look impressed. Clark didn’t expect him to be.

 

“I never knew I could do a lot of the things I did in that fight.” He continued, truly ashamed as the events unravelled in his mind. “Hell, I never even fought anybody before. I just… I just wanted them to stop. You know? And… And--” The screams, the terror and pain. His eyes welled up. “I… I didn’t think. I just… I had to stop ‘em.” He sniffed, trying to get a hold of those emotions that never had the chance to actually deal with. He never had anyone to talk about them with. No one that could actually understand. Why did he feel like Batman could understand? Why-- “And I know it doesn’t excuse what I did… Or what I let happen…” He took another deep breath to steady himself and... That sweet scent… Filled him up. It was so soothing to him. It was so warm and sweet. It was a promise, somehow. A promise that everything was gonna be alright. It gave him strength. It made him want to prove himself.

 

“I’ve been trying to make up for everything ever since.” He concluded, feeling open and raw.

 

He was like an open book. Bruce had been in front of many liars in his day. He knew the telltales of a lie and of a psychopath, and, looking at that poor sap, he found none. All those statements were true to him. All those emotions, the contrition and sorrow were genuine. Something ugly and very familiar twisted in his heart. It was empathy and he really didn’t want to feel that now.

 

He struggled through it, he really did. He clinged to that rage and that cold need for vengeance with teeth and nails but… That stupid, sincere face…! It was so goddamn genuine! And that fever! It was quickly burning away any want of confrontation from his mind. Bruce huffed as he stared on, into those clear blue eyes that sought out his pardon; his absolution. And hadn’t he always been a sucker for blue eyes?

 

Months of planning, of hating and preparing, washed away from his shoulders as Bruce sighed as he rubbed his own face. The alien, on the other hand, took a chance and closed yet again the distance between himself and the vigilante. He seemed to sense that the Bat wasn’t angry anymore and regarded the man, curiously.

 

“What?” Bruce barked, irritated as his pulse quickened with the proximity. Now that anger had left him, the illness became stronger. As if in revenge at being ignored by the neglectful omega, the fever was spiking again with a familiar aftertaste he hadn’t the courage to name. Bruce gritted his teeth and pressed a hand over the scent gland on his neck as if to better calm himself in the whirlwind of emotions that were crossing his mind and heart.  

 

“It’s just—“ And Clark felt a little silly for actually saying this out loud but he smiled all the same. “I’ve been actually thinking about all I’d say to you when I actually got to meet you; what I’d do or what you’d do.” That heavenly smell made him so calm he wanted to bathe in it and soak it up in a bottle so he could have it forever near when things got tough. “It didn’t go as I expected. You’re not what I expected. Like, at all”

 

“Understatement of the century” Bruce grumbled, more to himself than to the alien. He huffed slightly as his head swam leagues in that dizzy frenzy. He could distantly recall Dick’s taunting about how big his heart was and Jason telling him that no matter what kind of a scowl he had on his face, Bruce would always be willing to forgive.

 

He looked at the alien again and his heart was tight, like a wounded muscle tense with adrenaline. Could he forgive this alien?

 

“Hey,” Clark called out. “You ok?” He could hear the man’s heart skipping and could see the grimace on his lips. He looked unwell and the guilt he felt before for treating his guest poorly was now tenfold. “Erm, you look a little green around the gills, I mean.” He pointed out and the Bat huffed. The smell, that sweet honeysuckle smell, got richer though as the man’s body seemed to grow warmer.

 

Clark’s mind strangely went back to that morning. It felt like a lifetime ago. The morning where he had a dream about Bruce Wayne and how good he had felt against his skin; how sweet and lovely he sounded in his fantasies and how he had longed to touch and touch and claim. _Oh God in Heaven,_ Clark thought, having trouble to swallow. He was feeling that sin again. What the hell was going on?

 

“What the hell do you think?” Bruce bit back but not with the same sharpness in his tone as before. He was tired. He was bone tired and he wanted to go back home. He should have listened to Alfred and waited but—He exhaled as his body cramped and Bruce grunted in discomfort. He wanted a shower, a bath; his cool, dark room and his bed. His body was punishing him.

 

But Bruce couldn’t  give up now. He had speared his enemy in his soft underbelly. He couldn’t well enough show weakness now, could he?

 

“I need water.” The Bat finally said and Clark almost hit himself for not thinking of it sooner.

 

“Oh, yeah! Of course, of course!” And he flew to grab a bottle. Hesitating for half a second, he blew cold into it, making it nice and cool before handing it over to his guest and sitting next to him, just as close as before. “Sorry.”

 

Bruce grunted, impatiently and drank greedily, unaware of the effect he was having on his captor. He was too hot. Was it a fever? He wanted to strip and take a bath in the Arctic Circle. Or somewhere colder. “Stop starring at me” He snapped after he finished the whole bottle, cleaning his lips with the back of his hand.

 

“Sorry!” Clark jolted, looking away awkwardly, feeling like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. He couldn’t help it. The… There was something that drew all of his attention to the Bat. Everything he did was so—Alluring. And Clark hadn’t even seen his face yet.

 

“Stop saying sorry” Bruce ordered, stiffening his spine because all he wanted to do was lay down.

 

“Sorry—“ Clark began to hum, blushing as Batman shook his head. He wondered what they were now, where they were now. He didn’t agree with what the Batman did but he finally felt like he understood why he had done most of them. And he felt like the man understood him as well, and all that anger had gone away… Or at least a whole great deal of it.

 

The black, scary mask of the vigilante melted away in those long seconds of silence. He still had so many questions and things to say but nothing came out. Words seemed meaningless in this moment and that was quite a troubling thought for someone that lived off of them. And the thick, sweet, warm scent of that delicious thing was now thick around them, making it even harder for his brain to think of anything that could make this better. He could only stare again, in increasing fascinated; curious haze and this time, Batman stared back.

 

Clark lifted his hand and Batman seemed to frown.

 

“What are you doing?” He demanded in a low, deep, rich voice. The modulator had finally given up and Clark knew that voice from somewhere. He just didn’t know where it was from.

 

“There’s… A smell.” Clark said replied, with his eyes wide in awe. His hand finally landed, gentile and candid, on the man’s neck. He was so warm, Clark noted. So warm. And it was the right kind of warm. It was nothing like the dry heat of the desert around this abandon war hatch. It was the warmth one would always associate with home. He quirked up a small smile as he looked on at the man that gave out a sigh. “It’s a very nice smell.” He said as the scent grew stronger and stronger.

 

Batman gasped as he pressed down on his neck and there was… something akin to relief on the other man’s face. It was completely enthralling. Every movement… Clark barely noticed that he as moving closer and closer to the other man. Now that they had talked it out - or so it seemed to Clark - he could sense how strong and truly lovely it was. It smelled like ripe peaches and warm brown sugar, fresh whipped cream and cinnamon. It smelled so good. It made his mouth water.

 

Clark lifted his hand, trying to narrow down were that compelling scent was coming from and-- Oh. When had he reached Batman’s face with his hand and started caressing the pale, exposed skin there?

 

“Ah-- the smell...is coming from you...”

 

And there it was. The click.  An eureka moment that made his stomach heavy with dread. So many years without one. Oh God, he felt like an idiot. He wasn’t sick…. He was in heat! And that alien. That alien that was touching him so softly; so insanely gentle. That touch, like a cool rain after a scorching summer day. It felt so good. It was so wrong, though. He shouldn’t be feeling this. Not from him. Not from the alien. That alien that so close now; whose exhales made goosebumps run up his spine; whose hands were so warm, just like his eyes. His eyes… His lips…Wait.

 

“Stop…” Bruce gasped, eyes wide and Superman stopped. Bruce groaned, shaking from head to toe as he tried to breath. He had named his demon. And his demon was now punishing him. He could feel himself getting wet with that small caress on his face, his body yearning for the attention of an alpha.

 

But the alien wasn’t an alpha… He couldn’t be. He wasn’t human… Bruce felt a whine in his throat as a spike of pure heat made itself known across his spine. His body was tired of being ignored.

 

“You’re in pain.” Clark pointed out, his eyes darting up and and down the Bat’s quivering form. His better judgment took a step back to his morals and he kept on touching the other man, trying to get him in a better, more comfortable position. The vigilante growled at him and sobbed as that sweet scent filled the air. He tried to fight the kryptonian’s hand but Clark was stronger. Clark would always be stronger. “Let me help you.”

 

Bruce groaned. Why the fuck was that stupid bastard still touching him? Didn’t he have a nose? Had he no sense of smell? Didn’t he know what kind of agony he was putting Bruce through? Every touch was like a flame and every flame set a forest fire under the omega’s skin. Goosebumps now littered his body and everything he had been ignoring came back like a raging volcano.

 

_He was going fucking insane!_

 

“Get away from me...!” He whimpered, showing his teeth like a threatened animal, pushing his body away from the alien even if it hurt like nothing else. Oh it hurt to breath now. His doctor had said it would be so much more than his others but Bruce had never dreamed it would be like this.

 

“Stop being so stubborn.” Clark huffed, catching him by the waist as the man writhed in what appeared to be sheer agony, hands out stretched as a powerful shudder ran through him and that sweet scent was fogging the air around them. It caused the reporter pain - gut wrenching pain - to see him in pain and Clark had no idea why. It was making him nervous and jittery. He had to take care of the other man. He had to hold him and keep him ok and safe.

 

He ran his x-ray vision over the other’s body and though he had been bruised and battered, nothing appeared to be jutting to cause that amount of pain. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He asked as those out stretched hands mused his hair and face. _“Please…!”_ he urged, hunching his shoulders to duck from those fighting hands.

 

Bruce looked up as he panted, eyes narrow as small sweat beads gathered on his temple. He barely opened his mouth to reply when something happened. He looked at that disheveled fool and again something clicked inside his heat addled mind.

 

He knew that face!

 

He looked at that… That… What was his name again? He remembered that face! Glasses, thick rimmed. Blue eyes. Plaid shirt, for some reason. Big hands. Full lower lips. Shy… So shy. Almost cute.

 

No! _Focus!_

 

“I know you!” He accused. Every breath hurt like a hot poker to the chest. “... Reporter. Journalist. What. Is. Your. Name?!” he said between every pained breath.

 

Clark again felt like a child caught misbehaving. But the stolen candy was sweet in his mouth, worth the wrath his misdeed would bring upon him.

 

The same feeling of that morning. Something in his flesh, finally awaken.

 

He felt a blush run through his face and an awkward, embarrassed smile came up before he could catch himself. “You have me at a disadvantage.” Clark replied, feeling bold and excited and captive, all at the same time. He leaned in forward, even though the human pushed him back and placed a hand over that ugly cowl.

 

“Clark…” He said, almost dreamily, his hands removing the mask of the vigilante. When his face - handsome and charming even now - was revealed, Clark felt as if he had always known. “I’m Clark Kent, Mr. Wayne.”

 

_Clark motherfucking Kent._

 

Somehow, he should’ve fucking known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have... Little to no excuses for why it took so long to write this. I know this is more build up than what I promised but--
> 
> The truth is, boys and girls, is that I need you to be patient with me. Robbie and I had agreed to write this together as a fun way to pass the time. Do it fifty/fifty and just have fun with these characters. What it ended up being was that I would write the bulk of most of the chapters and sometimes Robbie wouldn't help me at all.
> 
> We got in to many huge fights, not just about this fic but about our friendship in general - and horrible things were said and done - and I just didn't wanna write this anymore XD. It was marked in my brain as a bad thing and I kept postponing it again and again. Robbie flat out left it all together and has zero regrets about it. And me? It wasn't that I didn't love the story or the characters anymore, I just-- I felt really bad and depressed about it.
> 
> It was supposed to be fun but it was also supposed to be a colaborative effort, we were supposed to finish it together.
> 
> But Robbie didn't wanna finish nor did they want to be my friend anymore, and it hurt me really bad. It was like the finishing blow in my already shitty life situation. So that's why it took me so long to update. 
> 
> I'm still heartbroken with them still but I wanna finish everything that I dreamed about for the fic, so the updates will be more frequent now but the chapters will be shorter and they'll be more of my style of writing then the flair that Robbie's sprinkled about. I don't know if it will be as good but I can promise that I can try my best.
> 
> So I ask the people reading, new and old, to stick around.  
> I'm gonna finish this. It will take a little while and it may not be perfect but I have some sweet ideas for the next chapters and I beg you to be patient. 
> 
> And thank you, so much, for sticking around and reading.  
> I love you all and I hope to hear your thought in the comments.


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce let his eyes become slits as he furrowed his brow, looking murderous and, at the same time, somewhat in awe at the alien. He couldn’t breathe normally, his pink lips parted as he panted. He couldn’t stay here. He had to go. He had to leave. Good god! He hadn’t had a heat in so long. He could feel it, like a monster whose absence only made it stronger, eating at his insides. All consuming. Unforgiving.

 

“So… What now, mr Kent?” Bruce licked lips, still feeling them parched. “What are you going to make of this?”

 

“Of what, mr Wayne?” Clark asked, following that enticing pink tongue.

 

How easy it would be, to make fun and bite at that stupid, pretty creature. How righteous it would feel. But he didn’t have the time. “You… Don’t know?” The gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach turned icy cold and there was a primitive urge to despair. His time was oficially up. “I…” There was a desperate sort of laugh bubbling in his voice as he looked up at the alien. “I am an _omega,_ you idiot!” He growled, huffing. “You triggered my _heat...!”_

 

_Oh._

Clark stared, dazed; flabbergasted. “Erm” He knew those words. He had been taught them in school. They floated around him as he played his part as a shy, unassuming beta. But they had never really been directed at him. He froze as the omega writhed in a like coyote desperation to be free of his own clothes, as if they were somehow consuming him in the most painful way.

 

“Fuck.” Bruce huffed, irritated beyond belief. He had to cuss because if he didn’t he was going to cry. It was too late. Too late, God in Heaven! He gritted his teeth, clawing at his own body as it shook in the deep contractions of his uterus. God! He hated it so much! His cursed womb, demanding so much of him like some sort of terrible god of nature needing to be appeased. “Fuck!” Bruce was going to cry!

 

The omega’s distress was what woke the kryptonian from his daze and he quickened to hold the billionaire’s hands, least he do himself harm. “Wait, wait, please” Clark begged him. “You’ll hurt yourself like that. Here,” He offered, pulling the zipper at Bruce’s back to help him undress. “Let me help you” He said through a blush as the scent – that sweet, heavenly scent -, now completely unfiltered by what was left of the suit wafted over towards his nose and suckered punch him stupid; made him dumb and _hungry._

 

Bruce laughed bitterly at the offer and bared his teeth at the alpha. “You?” He demanded, panting as his thighs quivered. “Help?” He spat, groaning in pain as the telltale slickness of a heat ran down his cheeks and pooled on the ground. “You can’t help me…!”

 

“Let me try!” Clark demanded, pleaded, offended and surprisingly just as needy as Bruce felt. It was so unfair! How could the omega judge him so harshly? He didn’t even know Clark! If he did—

 

 _If he did, he’d be mine._ Clark thought with a dark desire that almost scared him.

 

“No!” Bruce was vehement. “Just—Ah! Go away!” And he felt miserable inside. The pain doubled and he couldn’t help a whimper of pure pain. He had been punched, stabbed, shot and yet no pain came close to this. “Fuck” he hunched over himself, hugging his middle. He knew how to somewhat soothe the ache but the alien just wouldn’t go away! “Kent! Just—leave already!” Bruce demanded, hands shaking and failing to push the journalist away.

 

“Come on, mr Wayne.” Clark whined like a kicked puppy, unaware of what he was doing to the omega. He had a pain of his own that was too great to be ignored. His hands twitched and his heart was racing. That scent filled his lungs and Clark was ready to never breathe oxygen again and just breath it for the rest of his life. The mere thought of leaving Bruce alone was hurting him. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He needed—

 

God! What was the name for this need?

 

“I told you I don’t want to hurt you” Clark replied, patiently. A few strands of Bruce’s hair were humid with sweat, pieces of dark ink along the skin of his forehead. Clark’s fingers gently pushed them back. Not touching Bruce was impossible, now. And a sin too.

 

“Let me help you.” He begged, softly, curious like a child, tilting Bruce’s head a bit to the side, revealing the spot - right at the curve of his neck - where the scent was stronger. He wanted to bury his face in it, fill up his lungs with that perfume. “Tell me how, please. Please…”

 

“Fuck!” Bruce let his head fall back for one second, feeling himself swim in those dangerous waters. “S-stop fucking… Touching me. It hurts… You stupid imbecile…” He panted. “I need… Alpha…” It slipped so swift and soft from his lips, like honey from a comb. He hated himself for it. He was becoming a slave to it, to that gentle begging and touching.

 

That made sense. He recalled now, all those times when colleagues and strangers, mostly in Metropolis, talked about, in low, smirking voices or loud excitement, the smell omegas had when in heat. He probably had smelled an omega in heat before. But it had never _affected_ him.

 

Until now.

 

“I can be your alpha, Bruce.” Clark vowed, reverently He dived then. A moment of weakness, and his nose was against that patch of flesh in Bruce’s neck, the very core of that inviting honey pot. Clark inhaled deeply and let out a pained moan. He didn’t know something - or someone - could smell so _good._  

 

Bruce almost screamed at the attack. Because it was an attack to him, a lightening attack to his core. Like a knife to his being. He felt himself, his whole self, coil tight as an equally pained moan escaped his lips and then… Uncoil; bloom. He arched his back, closing his eyes tightly. _Oh God!_ He thought to himself. His great mind was gone. “God d-damn it!” He screamed, sinking his nails on the alien’s shoulders, coming for the first time that heat.

 

A rush of liquid fire rushed through his veins and Bruce knew he couldn’t stop his body now. It was too far gone. This had to happen. “Oh… God, how could you?” He felt miserable and hot and desperate. This had to happen with Clark fucking Kent, out of all the people in the world. _“You moron_ …! Ah! You—idiot!”

 

And now that he knew the smell so intimately, Clark ached for Bruce’s taste. His tongue slipped shyly out of his lips, licking the heated skin as if it was sugar-coated. There was a heaviness in his chest that came with that violation. He didn’t want to _force_ Bruce to do anything, and yet he was. It felt so right to touch him and so illogical not to. But he couldn’t be alone in that feeling. If he was, then…

 

“Is this,” Clark asked slowly, kissing Bruce’s neck as gently as he could, almost chastely, “Ok, Bruce…?”

 

“Now you give a—oh! Give a damn, Kent?” Bruce bit back, rolling his eyes, taking advantage of the respite of the afterglow and the momentary absence of pain to gather himself, pull himself back to a wall and _breathe._

 

“What?” Clark asked, following the omega and crowding him once again. “What do you mean?”

 

No… He couldn’t. It wasn’t possible! _And yet he seemed so sincere too._ A voice whispered inside his mind as Bruce regarded the Superman with utter disbelief. How was it possible he didn’t know what he had done? Doubt and fear rooted themselves inside of Bruce and he thought for a moment of stopping this now.

 

He looked up and saw the alien. “Kent” He thought out loud. His pulse quickened as the forbidden thought ran through his head. It was such a bad thought. A truly horrible idea. He shouldn’t want this. He  should hate this man; this… Alien! He was a killer. _He did apologize,_ a sultry, dark voice whispered in the back of his mind. _You blew it off but he did._

 

No! He was an alien! How would they even fit?! He could live without it right? _You’ll just have to see,_ the voice responded as a shot of pure fire ran through his womb. Time was up for him. He had to stop fighting. He--

 

He didn’t want to. _But he wanted it so much._

 

He _needed_ it.

 

“God” Bruce gritted his teeth and wanted to bang his head against the cool brick. “You are a real idiot, you know that?” He huffed and his hands began to pet himself in order to calm himself. “You triggered me. You—kissed me here and now,” It was so hard to speak when all his body wanted to do was moan like the whore it was. “Now, I’m locked on you. I need—Fuck! God, I fucking hate you so much right now because now I’m almost-- imprinted on you and I need you. I need you to fuck me and you have no idea, do you? Because you’re an idiot. A fucking hick idiot. Did you just tune out health class, you goddamn alien moron?!”

 

How could he ever explain it to someone that wasn’t an omega how it truly felt? How his sense of self, of personhood eased away like dust in a mighty wind. How everything that remained felt raw, and open… And the need. Oh, it hurt even to think about that. He was leaking now. He could feel it. The thick slick hugging at his thighs. He could smell it. That sweet musky scent that only made it even more humiliating. He was getting _wetter_ for this moron _._

 

Even though the Bat was ripping his head off, Clark only heard one thing: _‘I need you to fuck me’_. And that… That was magical. His heart swelled in a way he had rarely felt in his life and thus made it so very special. He felt… Worthy. Accepted. He felt over the moon and the smile that broke from his lips could rival the shine of the sun. Bruce wanted him. Bruce wanted him. He felt like he was flying for the first time. He felt… Right; _like this was what he had always been meant to do._ He was almost shaking of joy.

 

“Really?” He asked, eyes wide and shining, breathless in his wonder. “You want to…”

 

Bruce groaned at that blue wide eyed gaze, frowning at his own weakness against it. “You didn’t hear a word, you idiot.” Pain rippled up and down his spine in a sharp reminder of wasted time. “Yes, ok. Are you happy now, you fucking idiot?” He cussed as if to stomp both of their budding feelings. This was just heat. Just heat and nothing more. “You’re going to fuck me or not?”

 

A new fragrance, then. A honey-slicked forbidden fruit. Clark felt his own blood run hotter inside him, pooling in his nether regions, filling up his cock even more. A single, scary, exciting thought: _Maybe I really can be an Alpha._ If he was an Alpha then he should do with Bruce the whole dance he never cared to learn. Open him up, penetrate him, _impregnate_ him…

 

“Yes, I…” Clark was panting in that same need. It was so… _Alien_ to him. But he needed it. He needed to take this omega now more than ever. He wanted this more than anything in the world! He wanted it so much, _so much,_ he didn’t know where to start. His eyes darted madly, up and down the playboy’s body, biting his lower lip, trying to decide where to start.

 

Bruce wanted to cry at the stalling but he was a good soldier and he shouldered up his tears to take the out the situation presented him. He was taking charge. “Kent” He barked and those blue eyes were on him. “Come here.” He commanded with the sharp surety that came with experience.

 

“Get this thing,” His hands ran up and down the alien’s arms to center him in the task needed. Gentle as if easing in an alpha in rut. His fingers hooked around the neckline and tugged down at the onesie the alien used as armor. “Off. Now.” He demanded, and even though his mouth was an impatient line and his tone strict as a general’s, there was something in his eyes. A smirk, a smile. Something sweet and caring and gentle. A willingness to guide and teach.

 

Oh. His heart skipped a beat.

 

Clark smiled again, that sunny, wide, enamored smile that seemed to show up only around this omega.

 

It was one of the most adorable things Clark had ever seen in all his life. Like a grumpy kitten, pawing at hands to be touched, that’s what Bruce reminded him of and it was lovely. Just lovely, he thought to himself as his sight lingered over blush covered, soft cheeks, an elegant nose and beautiful rose tinted lips that begged to be kissed even as they frowned. He recalled the dark, ugly mask the omega had worn for so long… It had been used, surely, to hide this sweet, endearing nature. It was nice ruse but the truth was so much more precious.

 

More precious than words could describe.

 

“Alright” And his Midwestern accent tinted his shy words as he undressed, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on those succulent lips. They parted for him almost instantly as if by command, like the Red Sea opened for Moses, and Bruce tasted like manna from Heaven itself. He was delicious and Clark devoured him until the omega whined from lack of air.

 

“Off.” The omega demanded, pouting sweetly, and the alien chuckled, finishing his task only to be pulled in closer than before by proficient hands. Bruce guided the journalist to lay on his back and quickly straddled him, placing hands on his gloriously furry chest before deciding that he needed to feel all of the alien, scent him and mark him before anything else.

 

“You’ve done this before?” Clark inquired, curious and a little jealous – though he knew, in the back of his mind he had no right to be. But as Bruce looked down at him with growing fascination as he touched Clark in the most intimate ways; as his dark eyes grew wider with desire and brighter with delight as he kissed and tasted Clark’s skin with his clever mouth; as he marveled at Clark’s reactions; he couldn’t help but have claim over this man. _Bruce had chosen him,_ that dark little voice whispered in his ear. _Bruce was his. This omega was his._

 

“S-sex? Ah! Yes” Bruce sighed as he rubbed himself contently against that thick wall of muscle that constituted Clark Kent. How magnificent he felt now, now that the fire that had been burning up his body and mind was quenched by the cool, firmness of an alpha. Oh, he didn’t even care anymore if it was an alien or a mermaid. In his deranged mind, Kent was an alpha. His alpha. And Bruce needed his alpha in him, taking him as deep as he could; as hard as could. He needed the man to fuck him hard and fast and fill all the emptiness he had carried in for so long. “I, mhm, haven’t ever s-shared a heat, though.” He confessed.

 

And Clark didn’t want to be pleased. But he was. “R-really?”

 

“Don’t get full of yourself.” Bruce warned with a growl, pulling at his chest hair even though they both knew it didn’t hurt the kryptonian in the slightest. In fact, it sent an electric thrill down Clark’s body, a jet of heat that pooled around his cock and he moaned, soft and surprised, even as he smiled.

 

“Bruce—“ He called out but the omega stopped him.

 

“No.” He growled again, warning, even though his hands were marking the alien as his own, the playboy would not give him this intimacy. Not yet. “You don’t get to call me by my name.”

 

Clark frowned at the imposition and something inside him wanted stirred in protest. Though, in any other time, he would’ve respected that wish, he was drunk on Bruce now. He wanted him and him alone. He wanted to make the vigilante his and only his.  His hands slide up and down powerful, strong and soft thighs and the omega atop him shivered. No. It wasn’t right. “We’re about to make—“

 

“Share a heat, Kent.” Bruce corrected him as his hips undulated and rubbed their crotches together. He was losing patience again. Even with the slightest touches, he was already going made and words were losing all meaning towards that specific and hungry need.

 

“Clark” It was the journalist’s turn to correct him, through gritted teeth. Bruce felt so good! So impossibly good! “Call me Clark.” Just by kneeling there, rubbing himself like that against his cock, Clark felt himself harder than he ever had been in his whole life! He gasped when the omega bent down and buried his face against his neck, his hands flying to hold Bruce as he moaned and purred against his ear.

 

“I’ll call you Clark when you’re inside me, Kent.” The omega slurred, kissing a long path down his neck to his chest.

 

“Then—“ Again, a surprised moan came out for Bruce was getting up and pulling away from him. “Wait..!”

 

With the speed that he had earned with a lifetime of training, he took the alien’s face in his hands and looked him dead in the eyes. “You killed all those people. You did that.” He whispered to the reporter, leaning again in till their noses almost touched. “You destroyed… My home. I won’t forgive you for that.” His eyes fell half lidded. He needed him to know. Bruce needed him to understand that. There would always be someone to remember the crime until the wrong was made right. No matter what was going to happen now. He also needed to see. If there was regret or sorrow. Shame. There should be shame. “You understand that?”

 

“Yes.” Clark said, and there was no small amount of regret in his tone, in his face, in his eyes.

 

“Good.” Bruce concluded, satisfied by the remaining honesty, and pulled him into a kiss.

 

Clark knew enough to not kiss with the uncertain hungers of teenagers, Lois had taken care of that. But he was exposed in his ignorance in his tentative touches, in the confused expression in his face when Bruce demanded an answer from him. He was, too, half-lost already.

 

“I’ve never done this before” He admitted, not proud, but not ashamed either, and kissed Bruce again, still basking in the permission. Kissing him was addictive, as if one kiss begged for another which begged for the next. It felt a little strange, dream-like. It was an incredibly _human_ way to feel. Vulnerable and powerful at the same time. “Teach me?”

 

The omega paused, as if dazed by those kisses, and blinked slowly. “Alright…” He agreed, and moved away slightly, little more than two feet from where they had been, leaving lingering touches behind. On his knees, he laid his torso down to the cool ground, arms bracing his head and legs wide open, showing off a pink, glistening hole whose honey was dripping down pale, perfect thighs. “Fuck me, alpha” Bruce said and it wasn’t a plea. It was a demand. A dirty, filthy, heartfelt demand as he presented to this man that he had, until only a few moments ago, thought of as his enemy.

 

“Bruce…” And Clark… Clark couldn’t breathe. He had seen so many beautiful things in his life. When Pa was still alive and they woke at dawn to help one of the horses that was giving birth, it had been the first time he had used his powers to help another being and he had witnessed the purity of life come from it. That had been truly beautiful. In the oil rig, when he had gone away, there were so many beautiful sunsets that melted into the water in a shower of colors that he didn’t know where the sky started and the water ended. The sound of Ma’s heartbeat when he came back. And they had been beautiful for their own particular reasons. But nothing compared to Bruce right now.

 

He was, in all honesty, the most beautiful thing Clark had ever seen and he was dumbfounded by it.

 

He was lost that this beautiful creature was calling out to him. And so he didn’t go right away. In fact, he almost forgot how to breathe for a while. And maybe he would’ve gone blue in the face if it weren’t for the long whine that came from the omega that jumped him into action once more.

 

“Alpha…!” The billionaire whined, hurt and in pain.

 

“Oh baby,” Clark flew to his side, covering him with his own strong body, tongue covered in sugar and adoration. “I’m sorry. You’re beautiful, you’re so beautiful, baby. I couldn’t—I can’t think straight with you, baby” The kryptonian began, appeasing him while running long caresses up and down that shivering body, pressing adoring kisses on the back of his neck and shoulders.

 

“S-stupid…”

 

“Yeah, baby, I was so stupid,” His cock pressed against the cleft of Bruce’s ass and both of them moaned, brokenly, at the promise of what was to come. “Oh, baby, please, can I…? Please?”

 

Bruce wanted to cry again. It felt too good for comfort. He shouldn’t even be feeling this good. He was strong but he would never be _this_ strong. He was falling and falling hard. So he hissed: “Yes…! God, please, stop—It hurts!” They both needed it so much now. Why was taking so long?

 

“Where? Where does it hurt, baby?” Clark asked, alarmed, running his x-ray vision up and down, stopping the gentle, hard pets that had felt so good and making the omega writhe and turn in agony.

 

Under the kryptonian' hands, Bruce’s skin had started to run hot. _It's time to be done_ , his body was screaming. _Time to be done with all this pantomime and get to the real thing._ But Clark didn’t know what to do. He had never danced this dance before and as he tried to calm the omega, he began to trip on his feet, driving Bruce insane. The omega bit down, hard enough to make himself bleed, and through the pain once more he tried to center himself. "My womb--" His voice was rough and broken. "It hurts... Empty." And he was both angry and desperate because he had to explain this to a grown alpha. "Hurts... Torture. Touch.. Please, God! Touch--"

 

“Does-- Does this,” Clark asked slowly, not quite understanding, kissing Bruce’s neck as gently as he could one more time, almost chastely while checking on the bleeding wound. “feel like torture…?”

 

"No--" Bruce gasped, pushing himself towards the touch. "M-moron." He cussed, unfolding his arms and placing his hands over the alien's and guiding them back to touching but this time in bolder spots. Touching his sex, his thighs, his leaking hole. "Touch me... I-idiot." He puffed out, moaning as their joined hands played with the ream of his cunt. "It hurts... Need! Alpha...!"

 

Oh.

 

"Of course," Clark let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. flustered and arouse. "Yes, of course. Of course." He planted a long kiss on Bruce's cheek and took control once more, allowing his eager hands to do their own bout of exploring with his mouth soon to follow. Bruce smelled so good, so sweet! "Like this?" He asked, placing kisses down his spine and the omega shivered in anticipation.

 

Maybe... Maybe he didn’t need to be taught. There was nothing to writing, after all. _All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed._ Clark kissed Bruce wherever his lips could reach. On the neck, on his shoulders, and, with a moan, on his nipples, everywhere. It was very simple, in fact. He wanted to taste and touch all of the Omega. Turning Bruce to his back, Clark began to suck and bite his nipples, his hands wandering down, down, caressing the plump, pretty ass of the Omega.

 

"Yes..." Bruce said, his voice hushed and breathless. Clark's palms rubbed along his back, his waist, and over his flat stomach; his fingers searing and thick, stroking into Bruce’s wet, loosening hole with fascination and hunger. "Alpha--"

 

A new fragrance, then. A honey-slicked forbidden fruit ripe for the taking. Clark felt his own blood run warmer inside him, pooling in his nether regions, filling up his cock even more. If that was even possible. A single, scary, exciting thought: _Maybe I am an Alpha_. If he was an Alpha then he should do to Bruce the whole dance he never cared to learn. _Open him up, penetrate him, impregnate him…_

 

From Bruce’s lips there were nothing but trembling purrs and sighs. He held onto the reporter with shaky hands as the beast ravaged his insides and made him hot and wet. So, so wet. Why had he put this off so long? That insane, sultry voice whispered again in his ear. This felt so good. This felt so right.

 

“You’re so wet here…” Clark said, with no small wonder, when his fingers finally pulled out of the soaked hole between Bruce’s cheeks.

 

“I’m supposed to be.” Bruce huffed, as if he were a teacher in his last straw of patience with a student that had all the potential to be the best. “How… How do you think…” It was so hard to make sentences. He whined, irritated with himself. He was better than this. He was stronger than this stupid biological imperative. But he needed more. “That’s how a male alpha fucks a male omega. There… Right there.” He pressed the man’s fingers inside of him, moaning loudly at the sensation. It felt so good…! Bruce whined again, huffing at both of them. He pressed down again against the flooded area.

 

“I’m familiar with the biology, Mr Wayne,” Clark said, laughing a little against the Omega’s hips, his fingers opening up that wet, tight hole, fucking it languidly “It’s just that… I’m the one doing this. You’re wet...for me.” And with that he brought the two digits to his mouth, tasting the Omega, tasting what was his to taste. His mouth exploded in pleasure as his taste buds were filled by ambrosia. _Manna from Heaven, indeed._   It burned righteously inside him, that possessiveness. This Omega - this beautiful, charming, delicious Omega - was his.

 

Bruce remained silent, panting and moaning at being once again empty. He wanted so much more! Why wasn't he getting more?

 

"Can I..." Clark asked and his tone was pleading, begging. "Can I kiss you here?"

 

Any words, if Bruce had them, were silenced swiftly in the press of Superman’s fingertips against his twinkling hole. The omega keened, whimpering and trid to press back on those fingers; pushing the contact deeper into his cunt viciously. The press of the alien's hand on his waist kept him from doing himself harm. The weight of his body over Bruce's tethered him down, working as an anchor among an overwhelming litany of trip-wire sensations.

 

"Bruce?"

 

"Yes!" The omega cried out, in desperation and frustration. "For fuck's sake, Kent! Yes! God--!" He had no idea what he was agreeing to, he just wanted it. Whatever the alpha wanted, he wanted. He needed it. He wanted more. More. More. More...!

 

Clark took that enthusiastic consent to heart and delved deep in between those beautiful legs. His mouth was watering for that sweetness and he could barely contain himself from taking too much all at once. He kissed the tight, oh so tight, ring of muscles with reverence and got a long moan as a reward. A hand flew to his hair and Bruce pulled him hard against his hole, urging him on for more. And really? He had no resistance for that. He hungrily devoured that weeping honeypot, licking and kissing it as deep as he could. He refused to let one more drop of that slick fall to the ground and so he made a mess out of his own face to capture every last strip as he serviced his omega, gladly.

 

Bruce writhed in response; begging: “please, please, please—” Superman's teeth drag against his hole and it hurts—and it’s perfect. His body goes limp in a sudden, gushing his second orgasm of this heat, and Clark groaned quietly, lapping up that slick, famished, oh so hungry for more.

 

 “Good, baby. You did so well.” He whispered, hotly. "So well, so good--"

 

Bruce doesn't answer. He merely pulled Clark down for a kiss, needy and breathless and begged, sweet as his honey. "Please... More..."

 

"Of course," Clark whispers back. "Of course, baby." He kisses his omega once, twice, thrice. His heart felt so full, his body so ready. He was made for this too. He was made for flying and protecting and saving. He was also made for loving his omega, taking him, breeding him. Serving him.  "Anything for you." He vowed, laying Bruce back down and covering him once more with his own body.

 

"Alpha..." Bruce called out, hugging the alien's neck and pulling him for more kisses and Clark is sure that this... This was indeed heaven. He buried his face in that neck and his mouth nipped at the center of that glorious scent. He never wanted to go another day without that scent ever again. Bruce moves under him and opened his legs more, wider, to better accommodate his bulkier frame between them. He then, locked them behind the reporter's back, keeping him where he wanted-- no. Where he needed him to be. His heels dig into the dip of the alien's back and his hands grab hold of his shoulders as he arched his ass up to push up and entice the alpha further. And somehow, somewhere deep inside him, Clark knew. He knew that Bruce was breaking. He knew it was his job to hold him tight as he did. To put him back together again.

 

“You’re ready,” Clark told him, voice resonating in quiet pride as he held the omega's hips higher off the ground. He bit down once more on that succulent neck and the omega squirms in his arms.

 

“Please,” The playboy mumbled, his voice groggy and his eyes clouded as he tightened his legs around the reporter's waist. “I want you, Clark, please—”

 

“Sshh,” Clark whispered, his voice flowing tenderly over omega's lips before they kissed softly. Bruce is so close to whining and protesting once more, but Clark grabbed hold of his thighs and spreads them purposefully, pushing them upwards in such a way that the omega's pretty pink cunt is fully exposed and his. "I got you, baby." He cooed. "I got you" And his cock began to breach Bruce slowly, sliding in with utmost ease. As if it were meant to be. As if they were meant to be. The omega's body opens up with the littlest of coaxing and bottoms out as soon as the reporter is a third of the way in. Bruce sighs and whimpers happily, his hips rocking ever so slightly; so relaxed and yet so tense - so full of expectation, anticipation - as never before. He holds his breath and purrs at the same time; pets and squeezes Clark’s arms; and clenches and relaxes his slickened ass, which tightened and spasmed as it was thoroughly conquered.

 

Bruce mumbled something after a very wanton moan as he settled, buried deep inside his pussy. His fingers squeeze and let go of Clark's steady arms. He looks so beautiful, open and broken and his. His heart aches for every part of this man and Clark leaned down, lowering his head to Bruce's heaving breast. "What was that, baby? What did you say?"

 

Bruce huffed and the close contact spurs him into a needy, slow-moving action; his lips pressed on the top of Clark's head and it feels like a blessing from an angel. "Feels-- good… You... good...!" The omega muttered against the crown of his head, his cunt squeezing so perfectly tight around his aching cock.

 

And just when he thought joy could not get any greater; when he thought that he couldn't be happier, Batman, as always, took him by surprise. He huffed out a smile, snapping his hips in a tentative, rough thrust. He was filled with warmth and... Purpose and-- And Love. As insane as it sounded to him and to anyone with half a brain cell, it did. It felt like Love. And a love that he hadn't known before. It was acceptance and it was all encompassing and it belonged to him, and only to him. It was completely insane but feelings weren't made to make sense. Bruce moaned in sweet abandonment and nudged the reporter's cheek feebly, wordlessly begging for another kiss. He kissed those waiting red lips and Bruce bent up to meet him as he began to move, slow and hard and wonderful inside of the heat of his omega.

 

“More, more, Clark, plea—”

 

"I know, I know, baby" Clark crooned and set a punishing pace. He pressed his forehead against Bruce's shoulder, his hands firm on his hips, making fresh blossoms shaped as his fingerprints on pale canvas, beggining to mark him as his. He placed more and more kisses on that tender skin of the omega's neck, the idea of marks spurring him on harder and faster into that warm hole. Bruce should never walk without his mark. Bruce was his. Bruce was his alone.

 

"Oh G--" His words were cut off by the alien's tongue, warm and overpowering against his own as it delved into Bruce's willing mouth. With every ram of Clark's hips, their kisses were tainted by his whines, high and sharp; his moans, deep and wanton; his groans, long and impatient. It was a symphony that was, to his rational mind pathetic, continuous, unstoppable. To his instincts though, they were his weapons. He needed the alpha to keep going. He is so close. He needs just a little more. Just a little-- "Cla--" The kryptonian pulled away and stopped kissing him - to breathe his chest heaving with sudden intensity - Bruce's head fell back, as though his neck simply did not have the strength to hold itself up any longer. He closes his eyes, offering his neck up to the alpha, feeling his cock rush in and out of him in a mad pace. It was so much. It was too much. He was so close. So close.

 

Like this, on his back, Clark could see every emotion that flickers across his Omega's face and it's absolutely gorgeous. Bliss and want and lust and need and wonder and something so complex Clark doesn't even knows what to call it. He could look at him for days and spend every second fascinated. But soon, too soon, the urge was too great. Though he had thought that he could endure most of anything, he couldn't keep up with his own body. He was going to come. His cock... It began to swell as Bruce began to tighten even more.

 

"Ah--" The omega's scream was broken a gasp. He pulled Clark closer to his neck and the scent was maddeningly sweet. Mine. Clark could feel his jaw unhinging as he took a firmer hold of Bruce's knees and shoved him back on the ground, finding a new angle, an angle that let him deeper as he fucked down into his omega. Bruce’s flesh hot like molten metal, burning both his hands and his thought, quickening his pulse fearsomely. He never felt so alive! They grow louder with each firm thrust and Clark's mouth is salivating. He feels something grow in the base of his cock and he is coming harder than he ever thought imaginable. His teeth locked down on Bruce's neck equally as hard and there was blood on his mouth and it was the sweetest thing Clark had ever tasted. He buried himself to the hilt and felt Bruce buckle and squeeze around his knot as he gave out a hoarse groan.

 

Bruce tossed his head back viciously and came, spurting and soiling both their his bellies and tightening like a vice over Clark's hard knot. He was scarcely coherent for anything else but bliss.

 

Clark began to lick at the wound he had made, collecting up the droplets of blood that did not fill him with shame or guilt but utter contentment. And as he did, he felt his omega purr, sweet and low, under him. He was so warm, so utter warm and perfect and happy, even as he lay limp, pinned under the bulk of his alpha. Clark pulled back and saw feverish dark eyes half lid, dazed in heat. "Ah-" His red lips looked parched as they opened and begged for a kiss.

 

"What's that, baby?" He cooed, peppering his mouth with soothing kisses.

 

"Ah-"

 

Clark rubbed his cheek against the omega's. "Hm?"

 

"Ah... Again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So porn at last! Good god! Porn at last!  
> Thank you guys for sticking with me for this long and I hope you guys like my early Christmas Gift!! Yay!!
> 
> Anyways, I wanna wish you all a Happy Hanukah, a Merry Christmas, a Kicking Kuwanza and Happy Festivus, for the rest of us!
> 
> Love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any mistakes and thank you for reading <3 kudos and comments are very appreciated


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